


And Turns Them to Hunters

by kissteethstainred



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mating, Who am I, this is just Not Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a wolf in the woods. </p><p>--</p><p>There’s a wolf in the woods, and Monty watches the rest of his village grab their spears and swords on the regular wolf hunt. They’ve been hunting the wolf for over a year now, and still they’re unsuccessful in killing it, much less capturing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Turns Them to Hunters

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an attempt to make a small, 6k Red-Riding Hood au that is very clearly a) NOT a Red-Riding Hood au and b) NOT 6k. I still can't even believe that I wrote this much (although I'm sure I'm the only one who's complaining here).
> 
> Comments, kudos, etc. greatly appreciated! I hope you enjoy :)

“Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers; starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters.” 

_Howl_ by Florence and the Machine

* * *

 

There’s a wolf in the woods. 

\--

There’s a wolf in the woods, and Monty watches the rest of his village grab their spears and swords on the regular wolf hunt. They’ve been hunting the wolf for over a year now, and still they’re unsuccessful in killing it, much less capturing it. 

Jasper knows by now not to ask Monty to come. Instead, Monty clutches his jacket tighter around his shoulders and stands by Clarke as everyone leaves. The village is empty, and the quiet feels wrong. 

“Do you think they’ll catch it this time?” Clarke asks, standing so that their shoulders brush. 

The hunting party’s torches disappear, and after a minute or two, their voices die down. “No,” Monty says. Clarke nods, because that’s what Monty always says. He wonders if she’s figured out that by now, Monty doesn’t want them to capture the wolf. Its howls keep him company in the back woods. 

Clarke lets out a shaky breath. “There’s hardly ever anyone in the village,” she says. “Do you think the wolf would attack us since the rest of our party is out?” 

“I think you’re giving the wolf too much credit,” Monty says, but he shivers anyways. “Let’s get inside.” 

There’s a wolf in the woods, but it haunts everyone’s dreams. 

\--

The rest of the villagers at the Ark tell each other not to go into the woods unless accompanied by someone who can defend themselves against the wolf. Monty doesn’t listen to this, no matter how many times Jasper protests and argues for his safety. It’s not that Monty is fearless—rather the opposite, actually—but the woods can’t scare him. Monty is made of magic, a magic that flows around the forest, and he feels safe there, welcome. 

The rest of the Ark don’t mind as much, not as much if it had been someone like Clarke. They distrust magic—magic has been fading from the earth, slowly disappearing, and people have welcomed the change. It’s why the villagers are so terrified of the wolf. They whisper about the size of the wolf, how unnatural it is, how its eyes gleam, how one bite could turn them all. Monty is descended from witches, so even after all these years, they are wary of him, worried that he might be something evil like the wolf. Monty has tired of telling them that the magic in the wolf and the magic in him is different, so he doesn’t bother anymore.

Monty’s house is built at the edge of the Ark village, in a cluster of trees that tightens the magic around the house. There’s a small field behind his house before the forest starts, and a long, winding stone path leading up to his house. He likes the seclusion—Jasper complained about it constantly, joking that it was the only reason he ever managed to stay in shape—but always makes trips to the center of the village. People may already distrust him from the magic—better not make them distrust him more by becoming a recluse. He’d rather not have stories made up about him like they have the wolf, and besides, witch-hunts aren’t nearly as hard as wolf-hunts. 

He doesn’t mind the whispers about him. It’s mostly because of the crossing of new, modern technology. With magic dwindling and science and medicine taking its place, people are wary about magic. It doesn’t stop them from needing him. Abby, the village medic, and her team can’t heal everything, and when they can’t, they grudgingly come to Monty for help. Besides, Monty gets along much better with the younger generation than the older. He can deal with Abby’s raised eyebrows if he gets to hang out with Clarke, or Kane’s condescension if he can spend his time with Raven and Harper. 

And it’s not like Monty doesn’t recognize the danger that the wolf presents. Of course he does. Monty just likes the fact that he’s not the only magical being in the area, likes to believe that he’s not entirely alone. So Monty politely declines going on the wolf hunts, covers up any pawprints when he sees them in the mud, and lays in his bed at night and listens to the wolf howl. 

\--

One day, when Monty is in the woods collecting herbs, he stumbles across the wolf entirely by accident. There’s a particular thicket of thornbushes Monty goes to so he can collect some thorns in case he ever needs them, and he’s there when a low growling comes from his right. Monty freezes, not wanting to make any sudden movements, and turns only his head. 

To his right is a wolf— _the_ wolf, he imagines, since there is only one in their woods—lips snarling and ears flattened. Its fur is a muddy brown with black around its muzzle and on its tail. 

Monty raises his hand, heart beating in his chest. His magic is only good for mixing healing potions and small spells, nothing to fight off a wolf with, but once his hand raises, the wolf stops growling. It seems confused, sniffing the air and taking one step forward, before it takes off in the other direction. 

Monty feels his muscles loosen and takes a relieved breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He decides that the universe had just given him a sign to return back home, so he turns on his heel and walks in the direction of his house as quickly as possible. 

\--

When Monty arrives at the blacksmith’s hut, Clarke is already in there, talking in hushed tones with Raven. Monty waits until he’s noticed, not wanting to bother them, and ends up catching their eye when he knocks over a table with hammers on them. Monty yelps and moves out of the way quickly, glaring at Raven when she laughs. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, moving over to help him pick up the hammers. “No messing with my tools, remember?” 

“Accident,” Monty says, handing her the last hammer. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything.” 

“It’s no problem, we weren’t passing secrets around,” Clarke says, coming to the front of the hut. “We were just talking about the newest acquisition to the village.” 

Monty raises his eyebrows. “Some new people came?” 

“Yeah, they settled into the old abandoned shack by Maya’s,” Clarke tells him. She must have already told Raven this because Raven goes back to tinkering with a dagger’s blade. “A man and a woman, although she looks younger than him. My mother wants me to take a gift over and welcome them.” Raven snorts in the back, glancing up at Clarke in amusement. “Since Raven thinks the idea is dumb, would you want to come with me?” 

Monty shrugs. “I like new people.” Clarke smiles at him, says goodbye to Raven, and walks with him over to her house. Her mother gives Clarke a small gift basket, filled with fruits and breads, and together they walk over to the shack by Maya’s house. 

The shack had been abandoned after the previous owner died, so it’s a bit run down. Monty likes the way plants crawled over the walls, completely taking over, and the shack is large enough once the broken boards are cleared away. When they arrive, a man is doing exactly that, hauling planks out, while a girl to his side talks to him and sharpens a stick with her knife. She notices Monty and Clarke first, pointing at them with the knife, and the man stops his hauling. 

Clarke introduces herself and then Monty. “We heard you were new in town,” she says. 

The man introduces himself as Bellamy, and the girl with him is his sister, Octavia. They don’t say why they arrived, and neither Clarke nor Monty asks. Clarke offers them the basket, and the siblings look a bit surprised. 

“I’ll take it inside, if you want,” Monty offers, knowing Clarke wants to talk to them about more than just introductions. He takes the basket from Clarke, walking into their house. It’s been cleared, and there is just enough space to fit the two siblings. The house is clean, but otherwise not much has been added—only the fireplace, with a pot in the middle, and their bags take up space. When Monty puts the basket on top of the fireplace mantelpiece, he notices a small glass phial on the corner. The liquid inside is a dark brown, tinted with green, and when Monty recognizes it, he does a quick mental count on the days of the month. 

Monty returns outside, wondering how he can get either Octavia or Bellamy alone. When it’s obvious that it’s not going to happen that day, Monty does another mental checklist as he and Clarke walk back to the village, making sure he has enough ingredients to recreate their potion. 

It’s a full moon tonight.

\--

Monty listens for the wolf howls that night. He knows _the_ wolf in the woods isn’t their usual wolf, one that howls at every full moon. That wolf just howls whenever. But tonight, there’s a particular wolf howl, this one at a higher pitch than the regular wolf, and Monty glances inside at his cauldron to make sure the potion is still bubbling.

When he smiles, it’s half hidden by the night, but he listens to the answering wolf howl and doesn’t feel so alone.

\--

Octavia and Bellamy get along with everyone in the village. There are some hesitations—Kane doesn’t trust the way Bellamy and Octavia dislike authority, nor the outspoken way they both talk—but otherwise they help around the village. Their shack is fixed within a week, and the siblings look slightly shocked but grateful by the gifts they receive from everyone else. 

On the day of the next wolf hunt, Monty makes sure that he’s near them. Octavia and Bellamy are talking in hushed tones, almost fighting, and Bellamy’s grip on an axe only gets tighter. “You don’t have to go,” Octavia tells him, angry and almost pleading, but Bellamy just shakes his head and tells her that he’s going either way. 

“She’s right,” Monty says, moving closer. “I never go on the wolf hunts.” 

Octavia smiles. “See?” 

“Then you stay,” Bellamy says. “I’m going, Octavia.” 

Octavia huffs, crosses her arms, but Bellamy just presses an exasperated kiss to her forehead and walks to the hunting party, where he’s greeted by Raven and Jasper. Octavia hugs herself tighter, moving closer to Monty, and Monty says, “We need to talk.”

Octavia raises her eyebrow but follows him over to the blacksmith hut. It’s a place that is dark enough to hide their presence, and it’s easier to whisper secrets here. 

Monty says, “I know you and Bellamy are werewolves.” 

Octavia’s expression only changes to one of faint amusement. “You think my brother and I are werewolves?” 

“I know you are.” Monty pauses when someone walks by the hut, making sure they’re far out of reach. “I saw the potion in your house,” he says. “It’s a Wolfsbane potion. They’re only used to help werewolves fight off the symptoms on a full moon. And I know that two weeks ago, we had a full moon. The same day you two arrived. I’m not saying this to threaten you or anything, it’s just—you don’t have to hide it from me.” 

Octavia lifts her chin. “Why would you bring this up now?” 

“Because I can help you. I can make the Wolfsbane potion for you guys, make sure you don’t have to turn.” 

Octavia considers it for a moment, her fingers tapping out on a table. “You can’t tell anyone,” she says. 

Monty nods. “Of course. Of _course_. The people here would go crazy if they found out.” Monty looks over at her. “Why would you come here, of all places? Surely you knew about the wolf hunts.” 

Octavia tries to smile, but it comes off as a grimace. “That’s why we came. If we went to a new town and suddenly there were wolves in the forest, right when we arrived . . . people would know. But you guys already have a wolf. If Bellamy or I turn . . . everyone here would just think it’s the wolf that already lives here.” Octavia shrugs. “It’s dangerous, sure, but Bell and I have always known that.” Octavia glaces outside for a moment. “I think that’s why Bell went on the wolf hunt,” she says. “I think he wants to make sure they don’t find it, but I think that’d put him in a dangerous position with everyone else.” Her eyes turn to him, look him up and down critically. “You’d really make the potion for us?” 

“I already have,” Monty says. Octavia’s mouth curls into a pleased smile at that, her expression softening. “Hey—the wolf that is already here. Do you know anything about it, that we don’t know?” 

“You mean the wolf side of it?” Octavia asks. “No, I couldn’t really say. But ask Bell about it. He knows a lot more about wolves than I do.” 

Monty tucks the information away and says, “It’s probably best that you get the potion now since the village is already empty. Hardly anyone would see you have it.” 

Octavia nods, gesturing outside of the hut. “Lead the way.” 

\--

Monty sees the wolf much more now. Once, when he’s cleaning dishes, he notices the wolf sitting in the field behind Monty’s hut. He drops his dishes, rushing to the door, and peers at the wolf. It’s not Octavia or Bellamy because the fur is the same as the one he’d met earlier, so it has to be _the_ wolf. 

Monty opens the door, trying to gauge a reaction. This can’t be a normal wolf, he realizes, in the sense that it may be more human than he thought. It must have recognized Monty, in some way. Maybe it followed Monty’s scent, smelled it around this house and waited here. It must recognize that Monty is safe, that Monty won’t hurt it. Otherwise it wouldn’t just sit there, dark fur brighter in the sun, and watch Monty. 

Monty remembers telling Clarke “I think you’re giving the wolf too much credit” and thinks that he underestimated this wolf. 

Wanting to test his limits, Monty steps down the back steps, stopping once he reaches the earth. The wolf has become more aware, more cautious, but it doesn’t bolt. Its ears are pricked, body tensing for movement. Monty takes a step forward, pausing to check the wolf’s reaction, before taking a couple more. When he’s about five feet away, the wolf starts growling. 

“Alright, alright,” Monty says, raising his arms in the air. Once again, raising his arms makes the growling stop, although the wolf keeps its teeth bared. Monty flexes his fingers, spreads them, trying to figure out the fascination the wolf has with his hands. When nothing becomes apparent, Monty just assumes that it’s because the wolf notices that he isn’t holding any weapons. 

“Can you understand me?” Monty asks, feeling somewhat stupid, but the wolf only flicks an ear and bounds off into the forest.

\--

Jasper comes over to his house and collapses in one of the chairs, raising his hand in greeting. His hair is wet, plastered to his neck and forehead, and his shirt sticks to his back from sweat. 

“What were you even doing?” Monty asks, putting some water down in front of Jasper. “Being chased by bandits?” 

Jasper has a particularly long neck, so when he tips the cup back to gulp down the water, it looks even longer. “Helping Bellamy arrange and chop some more planks. I didn’t think wood was that heavy.” 

Monty laughs, settling down in a chair next to him. “I’m sure you did valiantly.” 

“And I’m sure I wasn’t fooling anyone,” Jasper says, pushing his hair back. It only serves to make it stick up more. “But I finished through, and that’s what counts, yeah?” 

“Definitely.” Monty taps his fingers against the armrest, unsure on whether or not he can trust Jasper about his sightings on the wolf. On one hand, Jasper is his best friend. On the other hand, Jasper confessed to Monty that he wants to be the one who killed the wolf just to be able to have all the glory. 

Before Monty has worked up the courage to go through with telling Jasper about it, Jasper speaks. “I think this place needs something to liven it up,” he says. 

“You always think that.” 

“I’m always up for a party.” Jasper glances towards Monty’s cauldron. “Any chance you’re brewing moonshine and not potions?” 

Monty smiles. “Not this time. I still have some leftover from last brew. What are you thinking? Bonfire? A night in the woods?” 

“Hmm.” The redness of Jasper’s cheeks is too bright to be from exerting himself earlier. Monty knows by now that it’s his blush. 

“What?” Monty asks excitedly, leaning forward. “Why are you being coy?” 

“I was thinking about a handfasting,” Jasper says, eyes on the table in front of them. Monty stares at him in shock. 

“Between who?” Monty asks. “You can’t just arrange a handfasting when you’re bored, Jasper.” 

“I _know_ that,” Jasper says, exasperation filling his tone for a moment. “I meant for me. And Maya.” 

Monty doesn’t know what to say to that, so he sits back in the chair. “Wow,” is all he can say when it’s clear that Jasper wants an answer. “I’m thinking that I need moonshine for this conversation.”

Jasper rolls his eyes. “Come on, Monty.” _Be serious for once_ , his tone says, because he and Jasper joke too often. 

“Are you sure that you’re serious about it? A handfasting?” Jasper nods without a moment’s hesitation. “Well, then,” Monty says, kicking at Jasper’s shin lightly, “I don’t see why you’re so nervous about it.”

“My possible impending rejection?” 

Monty bursts out laughing. “I know you have pretty shit luck, but trust me on this one. You’re going to be fine. There’s no way Maya would say no.” 

“For now, I’ll live with the small terror at the back of my mind.” Jasper leans back in his chair to look at Monty, flush in his cheeks died down. “What have you been getting up to lately?” 

Monty wants to tell him about the wolf, wants to tell him everything he knows about Octavia and Bellamy, but holds himself back. He hates that he’s keeping secrets from Jasper, but Octavia and Bellamy deserve better than Monty spilling their secrets, and something makes Monty hold his tongue about the wolf. 

“Nothing,” Monty says. “Only having fun exploding potions and waving my magic about.”

\--

Monty wishes he could say there’s a schedule or some type of consistency to the wolf visits, but it’s always random. He’ll be cutting through the woods on his walk to Jasper’s house and the wolf will trot out in front of him before disappearing back into the forest. Monty will return from the village to find the wolf laying in the bushes by Monty’s front steps. It always makes him stop, startled, before walking forward. The wolf always manages to keep a distance between them, no matter how close Monty gets, to makes sure that they don’t touch. 

He hears the howls during the day and smiles to himself. He hears the howls at night and almost feels fear race through him, but it also feels like excitement. Sometimes he can’t tell the difference. 

Until one day Raven returns from the woods, stumbling and leg covered in blood, and tells Abby while they cut her open that the wolf attacked her. Monty can’t breathe with the thought of it—he can’t believe that in the time he’d been fascinated with the wolf, he’d forgotten it was a monster—and brings healing tonics to Raven so that her leg heals cleanly. Abby makes it clear that Raven will heal fine without his potions, but she must see the fear and worry Monty has, so she gives them to Raven anyways. 

Monty returns to his hut and sees the wolf outside. He’s suddenly angry, viciously so, and yells at it. “Get out of here!” he screams. The wolf tenses, tail pricked in the air and ears flat on its head. “Go! I don’t fucking want you here!” It isn’t until Monty waves his magic in the wolf’s direction that the wolf scatters. 

The wolf hunts increase, and the howls decrease. Monty is annoyed that he’s worried about the wolf at all.

Raven smiles when Monty and Jasper visit her, Jasper clutching a bunch of flowers. The scar on her leg isn’t as bad as they thought it would be, but walking will still be difficult. “Abby told me I didn’t need your potions,” Raven says to Monty, “but I don’t think it would have been this pretty if I hadn’t taken them.” 

“You’re sure that you’re gonna be okay?” Jasper asks. 

Raven socks him on the shoulder, light enough to be teasing. “I can’t believe you’d even ask that. I’m going to spend my days sweating in the forge until I perfect a brace.” 

Monty can’t help but ask her. “And the wolf attacked you?” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. 

Raven nods. “It was racing through the forest but stopped when it came upon me. I’d just set a trap down, so I tried to run it into the trap—it was a netting. Only instead of running away from me, it attacked me.” Raven gestured to her leg. “Thus, the long scar.” 

“It didn’t bite you, right?” Jasper cut in, worry clear in his tone. 

Raven shakes her head. “Gave me a long and deep scratch, but didn’t bite me.” She grins at them. “I don’t know, I think I would have made a fearsome werewolf.” 

“You make a fearsome human,” Monty says. Jasper voices his assent. Raven wraps her arms around their shoulders and pulls them into a tight hug. 

When they leave, Monty tells Jasper that he’s going to talk to Octavia about a potion she’d requested for headaches. Jasper heads back to his house, and Monty goes to the Blake hut, hoping that they’re both there. 

Octavia opens the door but confirms that Bellamy is in there, standing back so that Monty can come inside. Bellamy smiles at him, saying, “We still have some potion leftover if that’s what you were worried about.” 

“Actually, I have questions,” Monty says, sitting down in one of their chairs. “About werewolves.” 

Bellamy glances at Octavia before sighing, rubbing a hand over his head. “What did you want to know?” 

“The wolf in the woods,” Monty says, and immediately Bellamy looks interested. “It’s not a regular wolf. With it recently attacking Raven . . . I want to know what it’s like. What type of wolf it is.” 

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest, while Octavia sits by the window. She keeps glancing outside, half of her face illuminated, as she watches for anyone else coming. “It’s not like us,” Bellamy says. “As far as I can tell, that wolf doesn’t turn at the full moon. It’s permanently a wolf, but still magical in a way.”

“So not all werewolves turn?” 

Bellamy shakes his head. “There are a couple types of werewolves. There’s the genetic kind, where you inherit it from your parents and it passes down through the generations. These werewolves typically live in communities, because they all understand each other and can care for each other.” Bellamy’s eyes cut over to Octavia. “That’s the type of wolf I am,” he admits. “Genetic werewolves turn at the full moons. The other type of wolf is more well-known: the bitten kind.” 

“That’s me,” Octavia interrupts, giving Monty a smile. 

“ _Octavia_ ,” Bellamy hisses, looking unhappy. He notices Monty’s confused look. “Octavia and I have different fathers,” he says, “and only mine had the gene for lycanthropy. I . . . I bit Octavia.” 

“On accident,” Octavia adds. “He was nine and I was five. I can’t blame him, really.” 

Bellamy clearly doesn’t hold the same beliefs, but he rolls his eyes and continues. “Both of them _can_ turn at the full moon, but bitten ones don’t have to. They can ignore it but it’s unpleasant to. Both of them can turn other people via bites. This other wolf . . . I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a wolf this size that’s natural, but if it’s permanently a wolf, I can’t account for it.” 

“Maybe it’s cursed,” Octavia says, moving away from the window and standing by her brother. “Long ago, a person was hexed by witches and turned into a giant wolf, cursed to haunt these forests forever . . .” 

Bellamy furrows his brows. “That’s actually pretty reasonable,” he says. “It’s big enough to be unnatural, and a curse could explain why it’s always a wolf.” Bellamy sighs. “Whatever happened, it’s still dangerous. You’ll have to be careful.” 

Monty nods and thanks them for the talk, pondering over everything they’ve said as he walks home. 

\--

It takes the wolf a while to come back, but eventually Monty figures out how to lure it. He leaves his magic tainting a certain bush or plant or tree, waits to see if the wolf stops by, and leaves his magic at another place nearby when the wolf appears so that it forms a trail. Monty figures that it was his magic that attracted the wolf in the first place—maybe, like Monty, the wolf liked being around another magical creature—and uses this to his advantage. 

He manages to get the wolf to the field, but it must remember Monty yelling at it, because it always keeps its distance. Monty puts meats out on his steps, but they always disappear when Monty isn’t there. Any tricks Monty tries to use end up blowing up in his face—in one instance, one of his spells literally does blow up—and after a while Monty decides to be blunt about it. 

He sits in the middle of the small field, letting his magic push out and around him, and eats a piece of bread while he waits for the wolf to come. His magic isn’t much, not nearly as much as his mothers or great-grandmother’s had been, but it’s enough to create a small bubble of magic around him, using the plants as a base. 

The wolf comes to the field as usual, but this time it doesn’t hang at a distance. The bubble of magic makes it curious, and Monty watches as the wolf slowly stalks forward. It sniffs the air, as if Monty’s magic has a scent to it, and Monty tries to remain as still as possible. The wolf comes closer and closer, until it’s only inches away, and Monty reaches his hand out to touch the wolf. The wolf jerks back, refusing to allow Monty to touch it, and lays down on the ground, inches from Monty but far away enough that Monty can’t touch it.

Monty drops his hand and narrows his eyes at the wolf. “I didn’t know wolfs could be passive aggressive,” he says, knowing it can’t understand him but feeling as though the flick of the wolf’s ear is a response anyways. 

That’s how Monty spends most of his days—he makes sure to visit the village in the morning and afternoon, but the late afternoon is spent trying to trap a wolf. The wolf always leaves before it’s nighttime, and Monty takes that as a cue to go back inside. 

“Why does my magic attract you?” Monty asks one day, the wolf laying on its side a few inches away from Monty. He can just make out its claws, and he shivers looking at them. He imagines them scraping into Raven’s skin and then forces the image away. The wolf isn’t paying him any attention, so Monty flicks some magic at it. It growls back at Monty, so Monty sighs and lays back in the grass. 

Another day, Monty just outright says, “Why won’t you let me touch you? Will you die or something?” 

The wolf, of course, only answers in growling, the occasional snap of its teeth, or silence. 

\--

Monty comes back from the village pissed off. There had been a meeting to discuss the upcoming winter, and he’d been the only one absent from the village hall. Jasper tried to calm him down, but Monty wasn’t in the mood for Jasper’s excuses, so he removed himself and made his way back to his hut. 

Maybe they consider him unhelpful, or unworthy, or not part of the village—whatever the reason is, Monty doesn’t want to think of it. He slams his door shut when he gets back to his house, going straight through the house and out the back, and wishes that his magic was something more destructive. He could brew a poisonous potion, but that wouldn’t vent his anger the way he wants to right now (also, he doesn’t actually want to poison anyone). So he picks up a couple of stones in the field, tossing them as hard as he can into the forest, and once that loses its appeal, he just sits in the field and furiously picks some grass out.

The wolf comes out after Monty has been lying in the field for a while, resting closer than Monty has ever seen it. It must sense Monty’s distress, because it sniffs the air and shakes its head like it wants to clear the smell. The wolf paws at the ground, leaving thin grooves in the dirt. When it’s done, it lies down, resting its head on its paws. The wolf’s head is inches from Monty’s hand—when Monty reaches over to pet the wolf, it jerks up suddenly, sitting back. Monty pushes himself up, too, their heads almost at the same level—the wolf is taller than him when they’re both sitting like this. 

“Can’t you let me do it this once?” Monty asks, keeping his voice calm. The wolf’s lips snarl when Monty raises his hand again, but it doesn’t move away. Monty doesn’t rush forward, just slowly moves his hand towards the wolf’s fur. Monty’s hand brushes the wolf’s fur lightly, pauses to make sure the wolf isn’t going to attack him, and presses his hand to the side of the wolf’s neck. 

The change is instantaneous—Monty feels his magic rush forward, and the next thing he knows, he isn’t touching a wolf, but the side of a man’s neck. Monty jumps back, startled—the man is the same color as the wolf’s fur had been, dark with black hair on his head and scruff along his jaw—and stares as the man looks at his hands, confused. Monty’s magic lingers on the man’s skin for a moment before pulling away, and once it does, the man transforms back into a wolf. 

Monty is so shocked that he doesn’t stop the wolf from running away. He only stares the spot where the wolf had been, imagining the man in front of him, and tries not to burst with excitement. 

\--

“What if we tried out this wild idea?” Monty asks Jasper. They’re hanging out in Jasper’s house, cleaning out some of his furniture and making the house neater. “What if we, for once, didn’t hunt and attempt to kill the wolf?”

Jasper doesn’t pause from where he's cleaning the fireplace. “Why would we do that?” 

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” Monty says, using his magic to sweep the rest of the dust and settling on the windowsill. “I mean, is the village hunting the wolf because they want the wolf dead, or are they hunting it because it’s tradition to hunt it?” 

Jasper sighs, giving Monty this _look_ of exasperation. “I suppose it’s both. It’s a threat to the village’s safety. And the reason we started the hunt in the beginning was because Wells went missing—you know the story, there was blood and scratch marks everywhere.” 

“But you can’t actually prove that Wells’s disappearance was the wolf’s fault,” Monty argues. Wells disappeared two years ago, and it still haunts the village’s mind. 

Jasper’s look turns to one of incredulity. “You can’t say it’s not dangerous,” he says, “because it attacked Raven recently.” 

Monty thinks it over, trying to remember what Raven said. “She did try to trap it, so it might have perceived her as a threat.” 

Jasper snorts, dropping his tools. “Whatever, Monty. I don’t know why you’re making excuses for a _monster_ , but I hope nothing gets into your head.” 

Monty’s pretty sure it already has.

\--

The next time the wolf comes to the field, Monty has a blanket with him, ready just in case anything happens. Only the wolf keeps its distance from Monty, backing away anytime Monty tries to get close. 

“Oh, come on!” he yells, feeling frustrated and idiotic for chasing a wolf around a small field. “I’m on your side!” He holds up the blanket, hoping the wolf—or the guy inside the wolf—will understand his intentions. After a couple more failed attempts, Monty just lies on the grass and waits for the wolf to come to him, letting some of his magic out. The wolf comes forward, slow and wary, and sits close enough to Monty that Monty can throw the blanket over to the wolf. Monty enchanted the blanket so that it was covered in his magic, and once the blanket touches the wolf, it turns into the man again. 

The blanket is large enough that it covers the guy entirely, and eventually he finds his way out of the blanket, wrapping it tightly around his body so that only his hands and neck upwards can be seen. Monty doesn’t say anything, mostly shocked at the man blinking blearily at the sun. He’s handsome, Monty can see, and the scruff along his jaw matches the black on the wolf’s muzzle. The hair on his head isn’t long at all, and the man hesitantly runs a hand through the buzz cut, frowning. He looks so upset by the feel of his hair that Monty can’t help but laugh. 

That makes the man’s eyes cut over to Monty. His brows furrow, obviously confused, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Are you okay?” Monty asks, realizing that transforming from a wolf into a man may not be the most comfortable thing in this world. 

The man tilts his head to the side, confused by Monty’s words, and the action reminds Monty of the way dogs tip their head. “I . . .” the man says, voice rougher than Monty expected, but he doesn’t continue. 

“What’s your name?” Monty asks, hoping it will push the conversation forward. 

That doesn’t seem to help him either. The man’s face scrunches up, thinking, and his hand grips his hair. “ _Name_?” he repeats. He shakes his head, finally looking up at Monty. “I don’t . . .” He looks helplessly at Monty, expression almost pleading. 

“I can’t read minds,” Monty says, shrugging. Now the guy just looks frustrated. He points to himself, then his temple, and then makes a strange flowing motion to his mouth. He’s looking at Monty expectantly. “You’re gonna throw up?” Monty receives a glare. The guy points to himself. “You,” Monty guesses, and the man nods. He points to his temple. “Temple,” Monty says, and when that doesn’t work, “Skin? Head? Brain? Mind? Oh, mind? Okay.” The guy does the weird flowing motion, drawing his finger from his temple to his mouth. “Speaking?” He nods, then shakes his head. He repeats the entire motion—himself, temple, flowing motion to mouth—and then shakes his head. 

“Your mind . . .” Monty thinks about the gesture to his mouth, how he shook his head. “Oh! You can’t translate your thoughts into words.” 

The guy nods, looking relieved. He adjusts the blanket so that it falls across his lap—Monty glances at his chest, his arms, and then flicks his eyes away, focusing on a distant tree. “Well, listen,” Monty says, licking his lips. “My name is Monty.” 

“Monty,” the guy repeats. He looks entirely unimpressed. 

“Yeah, I’m Monty. And you don’t know your name?” 

The guy shakes his head again. “My mind is . . .” He makes a very frustrated noise. “ _Before_ ,” he adds. 

“Your mind is still in wolf-mode, you mean,” Monty says. 

The guy nods again, this time managing to look a little impressed. Monty wonders if he’ll be able to get him to smile. He repeats, “ _Wolf_ ,” and then, “Is that me? What I was?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Monty says, crossing his legs and leaning forward a little. “Giant, furry, vicious beast that liked to either follow me around, hunt, or attack people.” 

“I don’t . . .” the guy says, dropping off and looking away. _Remember_ , Monty supplies for him. It must be confusing in his head, and Monty can’t even try to understand. He has no idea what it’s like to be a wolf. 

“Would you like for me to talk?” Monty offers, making sure his voice is calm. When the guy shoots him another confused look, Monty shrugs. “I could tell you more about the place, my words may trigger some of your human vocabulary, and it could save us a lot of awkwardness.”

The guy considers it, and when he says, “Sure,” he doesn’t seem too happy about it. 

“In the meantime, what do I call you?” Monty waits for the guy to say anything, but his mouth just twists into a bitter frown and he looks away. “Will you be alright if I assign you a name?” Monty gets a glare for that one, too. “Alright, you’ll remain nameless.” Monty mulls over what to begin talking about, but when no topic makes itself apparent, he just begins rambling. “So, this village is called the Ark,” he begins, “and the woods surrounding us are called the Space Forest. Don’t give me that look—I don’t know why, bring it up with our ancestors. The last two years, a wolf—yes, that’s you—lived in the woods, and the village has been obsessed since . . .” 

\--

Monty’s schedule changes from chasing or trying to communicate with a wolf to trying to speak with the Wolf (yes, that’s what Monty calls him—the guy hadn’t given him a name). Monty was right when he thought that speaking more to Wolf would improve his vocabulary. There’s one day where they have a flowing, length conversation without long, searching pauses by Wolf, and he grins when he realizes it. Monty’s never really seen him smile that much, always too pensive or frustrated. When he does smile, it lightens up his face, makes him seem younger and boyish. 

When he full on grins, his teeth glint in a way that reminds Monty of the actual wolf.

One day Monty brings out a parchment and some graphite for Wolf to work with, and he draws hasty, vague sketches of things he’s trying to describe. One time he even sketches a person. Monty gets excited, thinking maybe Wolf remembered something, but then he draws an arrow to the person’s leg, blood dripping out of it. Monty frowns at the sketch. “Is that Raven?” he asks. 

Wolf shrugs. “I don’t know her name. I only know I attacked her. Is she okay?” 

“She’s fine. She built a brace for her leg, and she’s totally healthy.” 

“I’m glad.” Wolf clenches and unclenches his fist. “All I remember was seeing her trap and then her trying to move me towards it. The thing about being a wolf is . . . you don’t hesitate on anything. There isn’t confusion. In that moment, it was my death, or her. So I attacked. Now, of course, I see all the options I had. But being the wolf leaves no room for doubt.” 

Monty drags his hand through the dirt, makes a healing rune, and wipes it away just as quickly. “So, do you have wolf and human emotions? Are they separate?” 

“No.” Wolf bites his lip. “No, it’s only. Like, as a human, I could have done the same thing to the girl—Raven, you said? I could have attacked her. But being a wolf takes away the rationality in a flight or fight response.” 

They always began their conversations with the same thing. Monty would say, “Remember anything today?” and the guy would either say yes and explain, or he would shake his head and Monty would begin a story himself. 

Two weeks into it, when Wolf confirms that he’ll keep coming back to talk, Monty steals some larger men’s clothes off of a clothesline (he thinks they’re Bellamy’s). He and Wolf develop a system: Monty leaves the clothes out on his back porch, soaked with his magic. Wolf puts them on, transforming into a man, and knocks on Monty’s door. Monty goes outside, and they spend their afternoon hanging out in the small field, lying and talking in the sun. Wolf likes the sun, likes to stretch out underneath it and bask. Monty’s pretty sure that’s a trait leftover from being a wolf, but it’s cute, so he doesn’t comment on it. 

Wolf in general is cute—extremely so—but Monty doesn’t want to comment on that either. He listens and nods his head when Wolf complains about the heat, how clothes are so restricting, and bites the inside of his cheek when Wolf takes off his shirt. He’s very muscular—wolves must be in shape—and the way his muscles shift make Monty’s mouth dry. Some days, when he stays out long in the sun, Monty can’t handle the way his dark skin glistens with sweat. 

It’s a problem. But considering the other problems on Monty’s list (the village’s continuing hatred of magic, Jasper’s worry over asking Maya, the fact that the guy doesn’t remember everything Monty needs to know, the increasing wolf hunts, and _more_ ), Monty puts it at the back of the mind and only frets about it when the moment happens. 

“You’re sure you don’t remember how you got turned into a wolf?” Monty asks. 

Wolf glares at him, which is understandable. Monty is persistent on this subject to the point of annoying, but he’s really interested in this magic. “No, I don’t,” says Wolf, his hand coming up to rest at the base of his throat. He doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s doing it. 

Another day, as Monty’s crushing some flower petals into dust for a potion, Wolf watches and asks, “So why does your magic turn me back into a man?” 

Monty pauses, pestle pressed against the mortar, and looks up. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t think it’s my magic specifically. I think any magic could do it, but around here, magic is scarce. No one else is like me.” 

“What are you?” 

“I’m descended from witches.”

Wolf’s face scrunches up. Monty has slowly been cataloguing his expressions, and this one is slightly different from his regular confused face—cuter. “You mean you’re a witch.” 

Monty shakes his head, grinding the petals again. “Witches are only women,” he says. 

“But there are male versions, aren’t there?” 

Monty puts the pestle and mortar on the ground by his right hip. “No, not really,” he says. “Warlocks mostly use dark magic, and I couldn’t even attempt to use it. I’m not powerful enough, which I’m thankful for. I wouldn’t want the temptation. And sorcerers are much more powerful than I am, much more elemental. My magic taps into the magic in nature, in mixing plants together. Sorcerers can _control_ nature—fire, earth, air, water. I can’t do that.” Monty shrugs, smiling lightly at Wolf. “So I say I’m descended from witches, because that’s what I am. I suppose I could say healer, but . . . that’s what I _focus_ my magic on. It doesn’t necessarily go hand in hand.” He pauses, wondering if maybe Wolf knows the answer to his questions. “Do you know what type of wolf you are?” 

Wolf shakes his head. “Sometimes . . . I think something must have happened to me. Something bad. If I was born a wolf, I’d be able to remember it. I would _know_.” 

Monty thinks of everything Bellamy told him about wolves, and he gets the feeling that Wolf is correct. 

Wolf begins to identify people in the village, too. One day Monty comes back from visiting Raven, and Wolf gives him a strange look. “Were you around the girl I attacked?”

“Yes.” Monty freezes when Wolf moves closer, sniffs at Monty’s shoulder. “Why?”

Wolf pulls back, shrugging. “I can smell her on you. She smells of fire and iron.” 

“She works in the forge.” Monty gets a blank look. “It’s where you build swords and weapons out of iron. Mundane things too, like my cooking pot.” Wolf’s face clears, nodding, and Monty knows he remembers. “Wait, who else do you smell on me?” 

Monty learns that Clarke smells of sickness, although whenever she touches Monty with her hands, she smells clean. “She’s a healer,” Monty tells Wolfsman. “She’s always around the sick and dead, but she cleans herself.” 

Wolf tells Monty that besides smelling like himself, he smells of Jasper the most. Wolf doesn’t like Jasper’s smell because all the chemicals make his nose hurt. Bellamy and Octavia smell like other wolves, their fur carrying the earth and moonlight, while Maya smells of the fresh wildflowers that she always keeps in her hair. Eventually Monty asks, “What do I smell like?” 

Wolf’s face changes abruptly, going from laughing to strangely serious. “You smell like the herbs you keep on you,” he says. “You smell warm, but it makes my nose itch. I think it’s your magic. And you smell . . .” Wolf trails off, looking to the side. It’s hard to tell with his skin color, but Monty can just make out the pink high on his cheeks. “You’re different,” he finishes, and Monty lets it hang between them. 

A couple days later, Wolf drops beside him and says, “Jasper doesn’t smell so horrible anymore.” 

Monty doesn’t bother asking how he knew anymore, only rolls his eyes. He had been with Jasper earlier, because Jasper had finally asked Maya and she’d said yes (just as Monty predicted), and Jasper had come over to celebrate and drink. “It’s the alcohol,” Monty says. 

Wolf snorts. “No, the alcohol is on your breath. The Jasper smell now has wildflowers in it.”

“Oh. He’s been with Maya. They’re getting handfasted.” 

Wolf’s face scrunches up again. Monty likes the way his nose wrinkles. “Handfasted?” he repeats. 

“It’s when . . .” Monty frowns, trying to figure out how to describe this. “When lovers, uh, have a ceremony to celebrate their love and commitment to each other. They make a bunch of promises and if they’re magical, they can put runes on each other.” 

Wolf’s face gets confused the entire time Monty speaks. “That made no sense,” he says. “What are lovers?”

To Monty’s horror, he can feel himself flushing. “It’s when . . . oh, gods.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “They fall in love and kiss each other and . . . fuck, I can’t explain this.” He wants to say they have sex, but he knows that isn’t necessarily true, and anything else he says could have exceptions. “It’s hard to explain. But you’d know if you saw or felt it.” 

“Alright.” Wolf rips some of the grass out. Then, “What’s a kiss?” 

Monty groans. 

Sometimes Wolf doesn’t even turn, just scratches at Monty’s door as a wolf and runs around the field. Monty watches him in amusement, chasing him with his magic, and usually after these runs, he curls up at Monty’s feet and falls asleep. 

After one of these naps, the sunlight filtering over them through the clouds, the wolf wakes up in a panic. He scratches at Monty, almost frantic, so Monty turns him into a man. “What’s wrong?” Monty asks, panic making him ignore Wolf’s naked body. Wolf ignores him, just lunges away to go into the house. He isn’t inside long, only to grab the parchment and a writing tool, and he comes back out and sits by Monty, sketching furiously. He draws a tall building with a pinwheel in front of the top of the building. 

When Wolf is done, he points at the picture. “Here,” he says, strangely breathless. “I lived here.” 

Monty turns the picture so that it faces him. “A mill,” Monty says, looking up at Wolf’s face. They’re so close together, leaning over this paper together. Monty’s hand flattens the paper down, while Wolf’s hand clutches the graphite, fingers smeared with black. “You were a miller’s son.” 

“I remember my father picking up stones,” Wolf says, voice catching. “I can only see his back, but he leads me to the mill. His hands put the stones in, and he instructs the horse to start pulling, and the large stones are ground into pebbles.” 

“A miller,” Monty says, staring at the side of his face. 

He turns to Monty, a light smile on his face. They’re so close together that Monty can feel his breath. “Yes,” he says, “Miller.” 

Their hands are touching on the paper, fingertips feather light on each other’s skin. “ _Miller_ ,” Monty says, and everything feels right. 

\--

“I don’t understand why you have to cook it,” Miller says, coming around the table to watch Monty cook the meat. 

“Humans get sick when you don’t cook it.” 

“ _Why_?” 

Monty sighs, glancing up at Miller in amusement. “I don’t know. I guess our stomachs can’t handle it.” 

Miller snorts, leaning his hip against the counter. “More and more I’m finding that the human body is weaker than a wolf’s body. Why would I want to return to being human?” Monty can’t really answer that, telling Miller that it’s a “Miller-specific question.” He moves to the small plants he keeps by his window and picks some rosemary to add to the meat. Miller wrinkles his nose. “Now you’re just ruining the meat.”

“We don’t all like our meat tasting of blood,” Monty tells him, trying to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “You’ll like it.”

Miller makes a loud sighing noise, moving out of the kitchen. If there’s one thing that defines Miller, it’s restless movement. He can never stay still—he always has some type of tick, even when he’s sitting down. Monty wonders if it’s leftover from the wolf or if Miller always had that trait. 

“Am I still banned from touching anything?” Miller calls from Monty’s other room. 

“Yes!” Monty yells back. Miller can sense Monty’s magic, and instead of staying away from Monty’s magic, he always manages to set it off. Monty has officially banned him from ever touching anything. 

Miller makes another frustrated noise, and Monty smiles to himself as he cooks the meat. Monty looks up, worried, when Miller comes running into the room. “Bellamy’s here,” he says, nodding his head towards the door. “Maybe Octavia? I can’t tell if she’s there or if I smell her on him, my human scent is weaker.” 

“Stay hidden,” Monty says, making sure Miller is behind the wall when he opens the door. He smiles politely at Bellamy—he can just make out Octavia on the steps—and tries to maintain a pleasant expression. “What’s up?”

“O and I are skipping out on this wolf hunt,” Bellamy says. “We figured we could hang with you.” 

“Oh.” Monty glances behind him, unsure, and then shrugs. “I mean, I started dinner, but I’m not sure if it’ll be enough—”

“We’ve already eaten,” Bellamy says, coming inside. Monty prays that Miller has left somehow, but he’s proven wrong when Bellamy tenses. Octavia freezes in the doorway at the same moment. “Monty,” Bellamy says in a low, calming voice, “someone is in the house.”

“What?” 

“There’s an intruder,” says Bellamy. His shoulders hunch forward at the same time that Octavia relaxes, putting a hand on Bellamy’s back. 

“Bell,” she says, “don’t worry. We won’t be harmed.” She raises an eyebrow at Monty. “I assume the hunting party isn’t going to find a wolf tonight, are they?” Monty shakes his head, closing the door behind her. “You can come out!” she yells into the house. 

Monty would laugh at the way Miller comes out, wary and eyes narrowing, but he manages to keep it together. Bellamy’s eyes widen and Octavia grins. “You’re the wolf,” says Bellamy in an incredulous tone. 

Miller leans against the wall. “Supposedly,” he says.

Monty snorts, causing all three of them to look at him. “Sorry, it’s just.” He turns to Miller, making his way into the kitchen. “You don’t have to be so weird,” he tells Miller, knocking their shoulders together as he passes. Miller rolls his eyes but turns into the kitchen, and Bellamy and Octavia follow. 

They interrogate Miller while Monty makes the dinner, asking him all the questions Monty already asked. Then Bellamy gets into the questions Monty didn’t know to ask—how it feels to transition, if it hurts at all, if he has any human thoughts when he’s a wolf, if the wolf ever takes over when he’s human, how his anger levels are, if he has any sudden violent thoughts. Miller frowns at the questions and takes a long time to answer them, but he manages to convey how it feels. Transforming back only hurts at the base of his throat, he thoughts are never human when he’s the wolf, sometimes he feels lingering traces of the wolf when he’s a human, and he’s more confused than angry. During some of the questions, Monty doesn’t realize he’s stopped what he’s doing until he accidentally knocks something over. 

Bellamy comes out of the interrogation frowning, but he says nothing is wrong. “I think you’re fine,” he says to Miller. “But I don’t recognize your symptoms. I can’t tell what happened to you.” 

Miller touches the base of his throat again, presses his fingers at the hollow. “I’m remembering things,” he says. “Memories and stuff. I couldn’t remember my name for a long time—I still can’t remember my first name, or what my father looked like . . .” Bellamy looks even more confused. Octavia glances at Monty, bewildered, as she eats some of the chicken Monty made. “I think I lost myself in the wolf,” Miller admits, clenching and unclenching his fists. “We’re not the same person.”

“Maybe you’re cursed to turn into a wolf, like literally,” Octavia says. “It takes over your mind over the years until Miller doesn’t exist anymore.” 

“That would be . . . unwelcome,” Miller says. “It’d mean I would have to stay human.” 

“That’s not hard,” Monty jumps in. “I mean, I can easily enchant your clothes.” 

“ _Speaking_ of,” Bellamy says, pointing an intimidating finger at Monty. “Stop stealing my clothes.” 

Miller glances down at his shirt. “Do you want this back?” 

“Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t like shirts,” Monty says, leaning his elbows on the counter. He’s cooking over open flame, and he definitely doesn’t need that distraction. “He has to have at least one.” 

“I can’t do it,” Miller says. 

“The shirt?” Octavia asks. 

Miller glares at her. “Staying a human. Permanently, at least. My mind starts to go all weird. I have strange thoughts. And I get restless. I’m worried I could do something, I could hurt . . .” Miller looks away, but Monty doesn’t miss the glances Octavia and Bellamy give Monty. He turns away so that they don’t see his flush. 

“What you’ve been doing so far seems to be going well for you, considering that we didn’t even _know_ you’d turned human,” Octavia says, and Monty winces at the glare she gives him. 

“Sorry! I didn’t know how I’d bring it up in conversation.” 

“I’d like to see it,” Bellamy interrupts, facing Miller directly. “You as a wolf, I mean. I wanna see how you act around other wolves, if you can understand us at all, or if you’re something else entirely.”

Miller nods. “I’d be willing to try it.” 

Bellamy smiles, one of the first of the night. Tension bleeds out of the room, and Bellamy looks far more relaxed as he leans back in the chair. He puts his hand behind his head and looks at Monty. “Tell me about Jasper’s handfasting,” he says, and Monty feels a bit relieved for the change of topic. 

Bellamy and Octavia leave later that night, affirming nights with Miller to meet up and test the wolf inside him, and Monty’s beat when he closes the door. He turns in time to catch Miller in the middle of a great yawn. “Let’s go to bed,” Monty says, moving past him.

Miller pauses in the doorway. “I haven’t slept as a human before,” he says, watching Monty uncertainly.

“Do you want to?” Monty asks. “My bed is big enough.”

Miller bites his lip, glancing at the bed. He shakes his head. “I’ll stay in here with you, if you want.” 

Monty’s surprised that he agrees, but he just nods and gets ready for bed. When he gets under the blankets, he sees a wolf curled up by his bed, and smiles to himself. 

\--

“You know, you could slow the pace a little,” Monty grumbles as he trips over a tree root ( _again_ ) and almost falls. Miller doesn’t acknowledge him, but he does seem to slow the pace a little. Monty is still unsure whether or not Miller can understand him in wolf form, and even in cases like this, Monty can’t truly tell. 

It’s frustrating, to say the least. Monty takes satisfaction in complaining out loud because he knows that Miller can’t understand his complaining, and if he does, he never comments on it. 

Miller has been leading him through the forest for quite some time, and they’re in parts that Monty doesn’t recognize. He’d never gone too deep into the woods because of the wolf—because of Miller—and now it was interesting to walk through uncharted territory.

He knew that the village had maps of this area, but it wasn’t as detailed as any of the other forest areas. The Ark called the area the Black Hole, jokingly named because of the name of the forest, and it had caught on. 

He should have brought a pencil and paper to mark this down, but he hadn’t thought of it in his excitement back at his home. He’d only told Miller _yes_ and watched as Miller bounded off into the forest, waiting for Monty to follow. This is why Monty likes planning, because he likes the organization and order that comes along with it. 

He and Miller will just have to come out here again. It’s not an unwelcome thought. 

Only—

“How much further are we walking?” Monty asks, his voice coming out a little breathless. “I am not made for this much distance, if I’m being completely honest.” 

Wolves cannot roll their eyes, but the force of Miller’s human eye roll was so powerful that Monty is sure that he could accomplish it in wolf form. 

Eventually they crest over a small hill, where a bunch of tree trunks have fallen over, and Monty clambers down into a small valley. There are high-reaching trees with roots that began above the ground and spread out, and the plants are bright considering the low amount of light. The sun shines faintly through the trees despite it being a little later than mid-afternoon, and Monty likes the way Miller’s fur looks dappled from the sunlight through the leaves. 

Eventually Miller leads him to one particular tree, moss growing on the sides and roots spread in wide tangles. Monty stops at the tree, but Miller doesn’t, just slips through gaps that Monty hadn’t noticed and disappears under the roots. 

Monty stares at the gaps in the roots, wondering if he’s supposed to follow, but then Miller’s barks, an impatient sound, so Monty squeezes inside. 

Miller snaps his teeth impatiently at Monty once Monty sits down on the dust, and so while Monty is looking around the small area, he pushes his magic towards Miller. Under the tree roots is enough space to be moderately comfortable as a human, sitting with legs crossed, as Monty is now. As a wolf, Monty assumes that it’s even more comfortable. There’s room to move around, and some bones in the back corner that Monty guesses was food a couple weeks back. It’s secluded enough not to be seen, but easy enough to slip out of. Monty glances over to Miller, who’s sitting in his human form, watching Monty look around. 

“This is where you lived,” Monty says, knowing it without having to ask. It’s so obvious just from the bones in the corner, to the scratches in the dirt surrounding this particular tree, to the small indent where Miller probably sleeps. 

“Yeah,” Miller says, reaching a hand up to touch the top of the trunk. “It’s easy enough to recognize and remember once I’m in the wolf.” 

“You have memories as the wolf?” Monty asks, forcing himself not to follow Miller’s hand as he places it back in his lap. They hadn’t brought any clothes, another thing Monty would have thought of if he’d been allowed to plan this out, and so Miller sits there, naked and totally comfortable with it. 

Monty has, to some degree, gotten used to Miller’s nakedness. It doesn’t mean it’s easy to bear, especially when they’re crouched so close together. Heat radiates off of Miller. Monty needs something else to focus on, quick. 

Miller only nods to answer Monty’s question, so Monty asks, “Do the memories switch back and forth? Can you remember the wolf’s memory as a human?”

Miller reaches out and takes one of the bones. “I can remember the wolf when I’m human,” he says. “It’s like an imprint of a feeling, or something that slowly fades away. I don’t remember the human much. I can recognize you, not by your human name, but by your scent—the wolf remembers that. Your scent is friendly to me.” Miller twirls the bone between his fingers absentmindedly, the white spinning over and between his long fingers. “The wolf dominates,” Miller continues, “which is why I’m having a problem with memory in the first place.”

Monty lets his fingers sift through some of the dirt below him. The magic around him thrums at his fingertips, and he can feel the sense of _home_ beneath it—a creature belonged here, depended on it for safety, called it home. 

“Do you ever get confused?” Monty asks. “Between the memories?”

Miller snorts, nudging his foot against Monty’s. “No. They almost have different minds, but it’s still _me_.” Miller leans his head back against the root wall. “It’s a strange transition between the two. Physically, yeah, but also mentally.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Like.” Miller closes his eyes, thinking, and touches his finger to his lips. “Wolves feel love. They understand love. Familial, definitely—with wolves, pack is of the utmost importance. So that feeling of love towards family, that didn’t go away, but it mixes together with my love for my father. Like I think he’s part of my human pack.” Miller grimaces, shooting Monty a look that’s almost embarrassed. “That was a bad example.” 

“No, I think I get it,” Monty says, nodding his head.

“I have a better one,” Miller says. “So, using love again—wolves feel love. They can love each other. And humans can love each other, too. So I can feel both of those.” 

“Right.”

“But when you were describing a handfasting, and kissing—those were foreign concepts to me. Because wolves don’t handfast. And they have an equivalent for kissing, but still, the way you were trying to describe _kissing_ is entirely human. So I didn’t understand what you meant when you said that. But love—love I could have understood.” 

Monty nods to show he understands. “Was it different when you went out with Bellamy and Octavia?” Monty asks. “Your wolf emotions, did they line up when you met with them?”

Miller hesitates, running his hand over the dirt around them. “It was strange, to say the least,” Miller says. “I understood them when they talked to me, and I could communicate back, which is good. But I didn’t remember much of what I said when I came out of it. I remembered meeting two other wolves, and the places we’d gone, but Bellamy had to tell me what was spoken to me.”

“Is that bad?” 

“No, Bellamy thinks it’s just a side effect of me never talking to other wolves before this. Let’s hope he’s right.” Miller’s hand pauses in the dirt, and he looks at Monty. “The strangest thing was when he asked me about my pack.”

“You don’t have a pack,” Monty says, confused for a moment. 

Miller gives a small laugh. “Yeah, that’s half the problem. Usually, lone wolves don’t survive by themselves, especially werewolves. But I’ve lived out here by myself for almost two years. More than that, I haven’t _left_. Usually, werewolves will search all parts of the land to find a pack, but I’ve stayed here. That worries Bellamy. He and I are going to go out soon and see how far my territory goes.” 

It had never occurred to Monty that it was strange that the wolf had stayed for so long. “I’m glad you did stay,” Monty says, and his voice comes out softer than he means to. Miller’s eyes snap to his, and they hold each other’s gazes for a moment before Monty adds, hoping the dark hides his blush, “Now you have me and Bellamy and Octavia and a human body, at least. And _some_ answers.” 

Miller nods, and he looks to the walls of the tree trunks. There are some scratches, shallow and obviously claw marks, low on the inside of the tree walls. He touches them gently with his fingertips. It’s obvious from the way he’s avoiding Monty’s eyes and clenching his jaw that he’s hiding something. 

“What?” Monty asks. “What is it?” 

Miller sighs, eyes catching on Monty’s again. It’s hard to decipher Miller’s expression in the dark, but even the knowledge that Miller’s eyes are on Monty makes something inside Monty unravel. 

“When we were wolves, Bellamy asked if I wanted to join his pack,” Miller says. “It’s just him and Octavia, but even then, you can smell the pack on them. You can tell they’re one. And I told him no.”

Monty frowns at that. “You didn’t join?”

Miller shakes his head. “Apparently, Bellamy asked if I wanted to join and I told him I couldn’t, because I already belonged to a pack,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to remember it himself. He probably _is_ , Monty realizes. 

“How can you have another pack,” Monty says, “when you’ve been the only one for the past two years?”

Miller makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t know,” he says. “All I do, apparently, is _not know_.” 

Monty leans forward and takes Miller’s hand, so that Miller will look at him again. His hand is slightly larger than Monty’s own, rough with callouses, and warm. “We’re gonna get through this,” Monty says. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

“And if we can’t?”

Monty squeezes his hand. “What is with you and the pessimism? Even if we can’t, you’ve still got us. We’re all still gonna make it through this.” 

Miller squeezes Monty’s hand for one moment, and then he lets go, pushing forward to his knees. “Come on,” he says. “I know a small nook between a group of trees that has plants you’ll like.” 

Monty says, “It’s not too far from here, is it?” 

Miller’s answer is a wry smile before turning into a wolf. Monty groans and follows Miller through the trees again. 

\--

Jasper and Maya’s handfasting is one of the biggest affairs of the year for the village. There’s a small clearing in a grove nearby that’s perfect for handfastings, and they all stand and watch as Jaha recites the necessary vows for them to say. Neither of them are magical, so they don’t paint runes onto each other’s skin, but they exchange rings that Raven made for them out of silver and iron. The iron to signify the strength of their relationship, and the silver for the luxury of marriage. 

Jasper is finely dressed, as is Maya in a light pink dress. Her signature wildflower adorns her hair, although this time it’s in a crown rather than a single flower by her ear. Monty stands with Bellamy and Octavia to his left and Clarke to his right, the villagers around them giving the correct responsorial verses when asked by Jaha. 

When Jaha asks the couple to repeat the vows, Octavia inhales sharply. She whispers to Bellamy, “You were right. I can’t do this,” but Bellamy grabs her arm and says, “If you leave now, you’ll cause a disturbance. Zone out, if you must.” 

After the actual ceremony, Monty brings out the moonshine and let’s everyone take over. He offers his congratulations to Maya and Jasper, but he’s quickly swept away by the rest of the village. He’s not bothered by this—he knew, coming into this, that Jasper’s attention would be divided between Maya and receiving congratulations—and he contents himself to drinking some of his moonshine and talking with everyone. Clarke has already started drinking games, pulling Raven and Harper into it with her, and Monty can hear instruments playing, along with the beginning of dancing. There’s a flare of light in the corner of his eye, which means that the bonfire has also started. 

It’s going to be a long night, that much he can tell. 

He finds Bellamy some time later standing by himself in the trees, holding a cup of cider that someone else must’ve brought. 

“Is everything okay?” Monty asks. “With Octavia, I mean.”

Bellamy nods. “She’s gone back home, but otherwise she’ll be fine. It’s emotional for her, to see a couple like this.” Bellamy pauses, as if uncertain whether or not to continue, but he says, “Before we came here, she had someone,” and leaves it at that.

They’re not here, so obviously something bad happened. 

Monty nods and says, “Are you going to pass the festivities?” 

Bellamy’s eyes travel over to where people are dancing, his face awash in firelight. “I left those days far behind me,” Bellamy says. “I’m not much for partying anymore.”

“It’s not a party,” Monty argues, “it’s a celebration, and you deserve some aspect of relaxation.” 

Bellamy smiles and rolls his eyes, says, “One dance,” and let’s Monty lead him back to where the festivities are being held. Monty drinks some of his own moonshines, Clarke and Harper standing next to him, as Bellamy pulls some girl around the bonfire.

“I’m glad to have this,” Clarke says, taking a sip of her drink. “We needed something like this. It’s been so stressful lately, and a celebration like this, with dancing and alcohol and the promise of something more . . . it’s exactly what we needed.”

Monty can drink to that.

Sometime later, when Harper has taken to braiding Clarke’s hair, Clarke says, “Holy shit, is that Raven dancing?”

“Where?” 

“Hold on, Kane is blocking—there, see? She’s dancing with Bellamy, holy _shit_. He deserves an award just for getting her out there.”

“It was all me,” Monty says, leaning to his right to see better. Raven doesn’t look upset about it either, just shakes her head and laughs at what Bellamy is saying. “If I hadn’t convinced Bellamy to dance, Raven wouldn’t be dancing. Thank me now.”

Harper snorts and pushes his arm, which tips him sideways. He protests noisily. Eventually someone calls for the presentation ceremony, where everyone gives the gifts to the new couple, and since Monty has already given his gift to Jasper, he holds back. After that’s over, Maya pulls him into a dance, so Monty happily goes, letting her guide him through the motions. He knows most of the moves, since they don’t have a wide range of dances in the village, but he also hardly dances. When it’s over, Maya kisses him on both cheeks and sends him off, where he takes Harper from Clarke’s hair and dances with her as well.

By the time some of the villagers decide to leave, the moon is high in the sky and the barrels low on their alcohol. The dancing has mostly stopped, and most of the remaining people have clustered into small groups and talked. When Monty rises to change his position, he stumbles a little, tipsy from the drinks, and he decides to head home. The longer walk should clear his head by then. He bids farewell to his friends and heads back to his home.

The night air is cold, cooling his flushed cheeks, and Monty makes his way back with relevant ease, using his magic as a way to feel his way around him. His brain goes in circles, thinking about Maya and Jasper handfasting, to Octavia’s sharp inhale and Bellamy’s “She had someone,” to the couples dancing at the bonfire, to Miller and the way rune ink would look on his skin, and then all the way back around again. He’s not even sure what his thought process is, just that they all connect in his head. 

He finally makes it to his cabin, and when he enters, Miller is sitting by the fireplace, papers and the charcoal spread out in front of him. 

“Oh,” Monty says, pleased despite his surprise. “Hello. I didn’t know you’d be in tonight.” 

Miller leans back from where he’s hunching over the papers. The firelight casts a light glow on his face, and he seems comfortable, loose and warm. Monty wants to press against him. “I didn’t feel like a wolf tonight,” he says, and then, smiling, “I could smell the alcohol on you from when you were outside.”

“That’s a lie,” Monty says, just to be contradictory—Miller probably _did_ smell him. Then, because his mind is with the alcohol and not with him, he says, “I wonder what you’d be like when you’re drunk.” 

Miller laughs. “I probably have been before, I just don’t remember.” 

Monty goes to move forward, maybe to sit by him, Miller’s softness and warmth inviting, but he stumbles a little and has to catch himself on the wall. Miller’s soft expression turns to amusement, and he says, “I think you should get some rest.”

“You’re right,” Monty says, and sets himself off to stumble to his room. “Can you get me some water?” he asks, as he passes by. 

Miller agrees and gets up after Monty, stopping in the kitchen area to get Monty a cup of water. By the time he enters the bedroom, Monty has already stripped to his bedclothes, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing at his temples. He mutters “Thanks” to Miller when he hands Monty the water and drains the cup in about five seconds. Miller watches him until the cup is drained, a faint smile of amusement curling his mouth, and when Monty’s done he turns to leave. 

“Wait,” Monty says, jerking forward to catch Miller’s hand. “Stay,” Monty says, clasping his hand between both of Monty’s. For a moment, Miller stares at their clasped hands, his mouth opening a little, and then he looks at Monty. There isn’t much light in here, just moonlight shining in through the window, and it possibly explains why Miller seems so otherworldly. Aware of his heartbeat, Monty pulls at Miller’s hand and says, “Stay with me tonight.” 

Miller nods his head, but pulls away. When Monty makes a questioning noise, Miller says, “I’m going to put out the fire, wait a moment,” and disappears around the corner. He comes back a moment later, already stripping off his shirt—Monty really shouldn’t be surprised—and hesitates awkwardly at the edge of the bed. 

Monty wonders how long it’s been since Miller’s been in a bed. 

Monty takes Miller’s hand again, aware of how quiet it is in the room but how loud his heartbeat sounds, and moves over on the bed to make room for him. Miller gets into the space and pulls the covers over the both of them. Monty falls asleep like that: still holding Miller’s hand in his own, warmed with Miller in his bed, and feeling extremely safe. 

\--

Monty wakes up pressed against Miller’s chest and Miller’s arms wrapped tight around him. He’s enveloped in warmth, and he can feel the rise and fall of Miller’s chest as he breathes, his breath fanning into Monty’s hair. Monty basks in the feeling for a moment before pushing himself up, trying to decide whether he’s proud or embarrassed of his drunk self for inviting Miller to his bed. Miller stirs when Monty gets up.

He’s making tea in the kitchen area when Miller walks in, rubbing at his face and groaning. Miller elected to not put on a shirt when he got up, so Monty has a brief moment of distraction before asking, “You want some?” 

Miller nods his head, but he’s clearly distracted. Monty isn’t in a much better mood himself—his mouth is dry and he has a headache—so he leaves Miller be and tries to find something to eat. He gets out some bread and meat, leaving it out on the counter so that Miller can get some himself. 

As Monty’s leaning against the counter, chewing on some bread and looking outside at the forest (and peeking over at Miller’s shirtlessness), Miller says, “Do you know anyone called Wallace?” 

Monty startles, and for a moment all he can do is stare at Miller. Once Miller’s words filter through his brain, he frowns and repeats, “Wallace?” 

“I think I remembered something last night,” Miller says. He comes closer to Monty to take some of the meat. “I’m trying to see if it was actually a memory or just a dream. Do you know of anyone called Wallace?” 

“I’m pretty sure they’re the ruling leaders of the mountain clans,” Monty says, “but I’m not positive. Hold on, let me find a map.” The map is folded and shoved between books on Monty’s small bookshelf, and he unfolds it as he walks back over to Miller. He sets it down on the kitchen area. This map is new, so it only has borders, names of the areas, and topographical features. He goes back to his bookshelf to find an older map, and when he returns to the kitchen area with it, he finds Miller bent over the other map, frowning.

“Here,” Monty says, waiting for Miller to look at him. He lays down the older map and points to the area painted on with mountains, labelled _Moundanea_ and in smaller writing underneath, _House Wallace_. “Yes, it’s the Wallaces,” Monty says, watching as Miller comes up to the map and traces the words _House Wallace_ with one finger. “I’m pretty sure they’re still an existing house.”

Miller’s hand clenches into a fist over the map. Monty watches him stare at the map for a moment longer before Miller says, “Are they good people?”

Monty frowns at the questions. “I’m not sure. What I know of them is little.” When Miller looks expectant, Monty continues, “They’re fair people, I’ve heard. Their taxes are higher than any other land, but they’re economically prosperous, and they put the money to good use. They’re leaders in medicine and science. The mountain lords have pretty good defenses, so they’re usually left alone. The Grounders and the mountain clans don’t get along.”

Miller’s eyebrows draw together, and he stares at the map again. Monty’s eyes are caught by Miller’s chest, where his breathing is more rapid than normal. 

“Are you okay?” Monty asks. “What did you remember?”

Miller closes his eyes. “I’m in a bed. I think there are other people around me, because I can hear moaning. Maybe pain? I can’t be quite sure, it’s fuzzy. There are people hovering over me, about me. They talk for a moment, heads bent together . . . I can’t hear them. The room is too bright. Then one of them says, ‘ _Bring Lord Wallace_.’ And I . . .” Miller takes a deep breath, and his eyes open. “I feel scared. More than that—I’m _terrified_. I’ve never felt that kind of fear in my life, Monty. And after the fear came the dread. It just filled my entire body, made me feel numb. It felt like I would’ve rather died than meet Lord Wallace.” 

Monty runs a hand over his mouth, glancing back down at the map. He feels slightly sick. “I don’t think that any man that inspires that much dread and fear,” Monty says, “could possibly be fair or good.” 

“No,” Miller says, and he sounds distant again, his mind distracted and somewhere else. Monty watches him for a moment longer. Miller is frowning slightly, his brows furrowed, and Monty wants to reach out and comfort him. He raises his arm and touches Miller’s shoulder. The tension in Miller’s body evaporates, suddenly, and he turns into the touch, but doesn’t say anything. 

They’re standing far too close. Monty says, “I’ll find out more information, if you want. I’m sure Clarke would know more information.”

Miller hesitates for a moment, obviously conflicted, before nodding his head. 

\--

Apparently there was more than one line to cross between them. Monty can tell by the (even more) tense way they are around each other. He and Miller are always by each other’s side, they stand a little too close, sleep right next to each other—in each other’s arms—but neither of them will take it further. Monty thought that getting Miller so sleep with him would have crossed a barrier—would have said something—but so far, nothing has happened. 

Monty goes to sleep every night with a wolf sleeping by his bed, and wakes up every morning in Miller’s arms. 

Miller slowly begins to remember more stuff. Their conversations begin to mirror the conversations they’d have when Miller had first been turned back into a human. When Miller wakes up in the morning, Monty asks, “Remember anything today?” and their conversation starts. 

Sometimes, what Miller remembers is random. He remembers walking along a path to a pond, where he and some friends would swim when the day was hot; he remembers his fingers digging into bread dough, remembers the way it had smelled as it baked; he remembers his father looking over his shoulder, always wary about the new people they met; he remembers the grove of apple trees in the farm next to him. 

One morning, he says, “I remembered my mother. My family, really. But this is the first time I’ve seen her.” 

“Did anything happen?”

Miller shakes his head and gives a half smile. “No. We were making dinner, and my dad came home. He had on a guard’s outfit, I think, because he had a sword and the armor that came with the guard. My mother worked with medicine, I believe, because she was talking about a sickly man at her work. He told her about the rising taxes, and the costs they would have to take . . . but she seemed happy. They both did. And then he helped to make some of the dinner, but my mom and I had it covered by then. We all ate and talked at the table. I don’t remember what the conversation was, just that . . . it was light-hearted, and we laughed a lot.”

Monty hates the sadness filling Miller’s voice. Monty says, “I thought your father worked at a mill.”

“He did,” Miller says automatically, and then his face breaks into a confused expression. “He was a guard, in the city, and then . . . then we moved. After my mother died, we moved to the mill, to the farm country.” He shakes his head, his eyes closed. “Did I—where did that come from?”

“You probably prompted something in your brain,” Monty says, but what he really thinks is, _rising taxes_. He doesn’t touch on it, since Miller looks upset enough as it is.

The next time he remembers something of importance, Miller says, “I’m not sure how true this one is, either. I could just be a dream.”

Monty shrugs, although the movement is stiff, as he’s pressed up against Miller on his couch. They’ve been like this most of the night, talking about what Miller remembers and Monty’s childhood. Their legs are tangled together, and Miller keeps running his fingers over Monty’s hand. 

“The last time you thought it was just a dream, you turned out to be right about the Wallaces,” Monty says. “Might as well try it out.”

Miller pauses where he’s playing with Monty’s hand, Monty’s hand sandwiched between Miller’s. “It’s weird,” Miller says, “because this time, I’m pretty sure the memory is one of the wolf’s.”

That piques Monty’s interest—Miller has a pretty hard time remembering the wolf once he’s outside of the wolf. “Go on.”

“Alright, I was following this river. That’s what I remember most—there was a river, and it led through most of the territory, but it wasn’t a fast river.”

Monty nods. “That’s the Agro River. It’s the water we use for most of our crops.”

“I smell someone behind me. I know it’s not another animal, because the scent is distinctly human. The steps are slow, so I’m pretty sure it’s sneaking up on me, but then . . .” 

Monty squeezes Miller’s hand. “Then what?” 

“It’s weird. I turned around and I immediately bit them. I didn’t run, or turn around and show aggression, or intimidate the human. I just—attacked. It was like everything was instinctual, but scarier, because I had no control over my own body.” 

Monty shakes his head. “Yeah, I have no explanation for you.” Monty watches the fire for a moment before he says, “Who was the person?”

“What?” 

“Who was the person you attacked? You remembered Raven’s scent, so I was wondering if you remembered them now.”

Miller frowns, looking away as he tries to remember. “Um . . . It was a male, I think, but I don’t recognize his scent in the village. He was dark like me, and he . . . had something in his hands. I don’t know if it was a weapon or just a bag or whatever. My wolf self worried that it was a weapon.”

Monty shifts at that, something ticking in his mind. “Miller, how long ago was this?”

“I have no idea.”

“Could you _guess_?”

“I suppose . . . if I didn’t have control over my body, I’d guess it was in the beginning. I don’t know what the means, or when that is, but . . . whenever this happened to me, it had to be close to the beginning, because I couldn’t control myself like I can now.”

Monty closes his eyes for a moment, and then he grips Miller’s hand tighter, shifting to face him fully. Miller’s eyebrows crease together. “What?” Miller asks. “What is it?”

“Two years ago, a wolf came to the forest,” Monty says. “That wolf was you. The village didn’t think anything of it until . . . Wells disappeared. That’s when the hunts began, because we believed that the wolf—that _you_ —killed him.”

Miller says, “You think the guy I just mentioned was Wells.”

“He matches your description, even if it was vague,” Monty says. “Do you remember killing him?” 

Miller looks shocked by this, as though he didn’t expect Monty to be so blunt about it. “I don’t know,” Miller says. “I only remember biting him. But my memory as the wolf is few, so who knows what happened.” 

They’re both quiet, and it’s hard for Monty to deal with—imagining Miller hurting Raven is hard enough, but to think that he killed Wells? It makes Monty’s entire insides feel like they’re being scooped out. Wells hadn’t even been found, only what could be called remains, shredded clothing and blood everywhere. Everyone assumed the wolf dragged him away and killed him. It was so gruesome, and to think that Miller did that . . . 

“You couldn’t have,” Monty says, almost to himself. Miller looks at him, eyebrows raised, and Monty realizes they must have been quiet for some time. “You couldn’t have killed Wells. Well’s clothes were shredded, but . . . they were in tact. His shirt, his pants . . . unless you were human and took off his clothes, turned, attacked him, attacked his clothes, and then dragged him away . . .” Monty shakes his head. “There’s no way you killed him.”

“Then you know what that means,” Miller says, and it breaks Monty out of his trance. “I didn’t kill him—I turned him.”

“What?”

“He _turned_. I bit him, he left, and I turned him into a werewolf like me. He was wearing his clothes when he changed, which is why his clothes were all shredded . . . and blood . . . the first turning is painful. Unbelievably so. He had no body because there wasn’t one—he was already a werewolf.”

Monty drags his free hand over his face, trying to process everything, mostly hoping that they aren't wrong. Miller resumes playing with Monty’s hand, but Monty can’t stop thinking about Wells. He could be _alive_. They’ve been mourning Wells for two years now, and suddenly Monty can see a glimmer of hope, where Wells is alive and they can find him.

Only—

“There’s no other wolf,” Monty says, and Miller looks away from Monty’s hand to Monty. “If Wells did turn, then where is he? He should be in this area, shouldn’t he?”

“He doesn’t have to be,” Miller says. “There’s a possibility that he sensed it was my territory and left. Or maybe he turned back into a human and couldn’t deal with the fact that he was a monster. Maybe he met me in the forest, I killed him, and I don't remember. Who knows?” 

Monty drops the subject, but it stays in the back of his mind.

The next important moment of remembrance happens as most of Miller’s do, in some type of dream, only this time it’s much smaller. Monty wakes up in the middle of the night, immediately aware that Miller isn’t next to him. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, frantic for a moment until he sees Miller in the corner of the bed, arms wrapped tight around his knees. 

“Miller,” Monty says, relief filling his voice. “I thought you left.”

Miller shakes his head, and then Monty notices his heavy breathing, his clenched fists, his tense shoulders. 

“What’s wrong?” Monty asks. 

Miller shakes his head again, so Monty pushes the covers away and crawls over to him, their shoulders pressing together as they sit.

“Did you remember something?” 

Miller nods, and when he speaks, his voice is pained. “My name.”

“Your—” Monty stops, and he grabs Miller’s wrist, excited. “Your name? What—?”

For a moment, Monty believes that Miller won’t tell him. Then Miller says, as if it’s being forced out of him, “Nathan.” 

“Miller, that’s _great_.” 

“No, it’s not,” Miller says, and now he sounds desperate and upset. His hands are clenching again. “Don’t you get it? I’m not Nathan Miller. He doesn’t exist anymore. That—that boy in my memories, the one laughing with my parents and chasing his friends around the farm fields—he doesn’t _exist_ anymore. That kid was turned into a monster. The boy my parents loved? He’s not here. He would’ve never done—all the shit I’ve done—they would’ve never—”

“Hey, hey,” Monty says, moving to kneel in front of Miller. “That doesn’t matter, okay? You didn’t choose to become a werewolf. You could hardly control yourself once you were in the wolf. And we still don’t know what happened to you. This isn’t your responsibility.” Miller is shaking his head again, so Monty takes Miller’s hands and squeezes them, hard. “Miller. Listen to me. You’ve done some shit things, but Nathan Miller is still inside of you. He’s a different person, but he’s still there.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Miller says, almost gasping now. 

“Miller,” Monty says, and waits for Miller to calm down and look at him. “Even if that Nathan Miller is gone—create a new one. This new Nathan Miller, he has support, from Octavia and Bellamy and _me_. He tries to be good despite the fact that he turns into a werewolf at times. He’s trying to understand what’s happening to him and he’s trying to be better than he was before. He can build a new life here.” Monty licks his lips, nerves running wild, feeling like he’s on the verge of sparking something in Miller, between them. He needs Miller to know that there’s something new here, that there’s something he can hope for, that the person inside of him is both old and new. He says, softly, “Nathan.” 

Miller’s eyes snap to his, and this time they hold. Monty is suddenly aware of Miller’s deep, rapid breathing, the way his body is slowly loosening its tense hold. He can feel the shift between them, almost like a warning—like the way a tree being cut down groans before it crashes to the ground. It takes Monty a second to realize that his breathing has increased just as much, that they’re breathing in tandem. There’s another shift—less like a tree groaning, and more like a wall crashing down between them, one that had stood between them for too long. 

Monty shifts forward slightly, his breath catching on “Nathan” again, and this time Miller shifts with him, his hands coming to his sides, his legs parting slightly. It’s easy and terrifying for Monty to shift between them, but Miller catches him before the gap is closed. Miller’s hands come up, one to Monty’s shoulder and the other to Monty’s neck. Monty feels it like there's someone else’s magic on him, lighting him with heat. They move forward incrementally, and they’re closer than they’ve ever been before. The distance feels like acres. Miller’s breath fans over Monty’s neck, his jaw, and Monty closes his eyes against the feeling. 

The heat of Miller’s body is almost too much to take. Desire rises up in Monty, and he realizes that he _wants_ this, wants this so badly that he aches with it. The hand on Monty’s neck slides into his hair; the one on his shoulder moves to his back, pulls him closer. Monty feels hypersensitive, every part of him aware of Miller near or on him, and he manages to whisper, “ _Nathan_ ,” again before Miller closes the small gap between them and kisses him. 

Miller’s mouth is soft and warm and, Monty realizes, _hesitant_. Miller’s hands are gentle on Monty, his fingers ghosting along Monty’s jaw and making him shiver with its tenderness. Monty’s practically shaking with how much he wants to push Miller down and take his mouth, and he laughs against Miller’s lips. Miller pulls away, confused, and says, “What—” but Monty kisses him to keep him quiet, half because they should be kissing rather than talking, and half because Miller’s voice is rough and shaky with want, and Monty _will_ actually combust if he hears any more. Miller makes a pleased noise in the back of this throat, and Monty digs his fingers into Miller’s shoulders, the need to have Miller closer nearly choking him, and suddenly he’s being pushed back. 

Monty lands on his hands, staring at Miller’s shocked and apologetic face. 

“Shit,” Miller says, his voice small with horror. “I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Monty says, even though he’s confused and slightly hurt. 

“It’s just—” Miller’s throat works. “Your scent. Your touch. It’s overwhelming. I . . . I’m scared I can’t control myself.” 

Relief spreads through Monty’s body as easily as his desire did. “Oh.”

“I want . . . I want this. Fuck. It’s driven me . . . but I can’t let the wolf dominate me, you understand that, right? I have to choose this on my own. It has to be _me_.” A small smile replaces the worry on Miller’s face. “It has to be Nathan Miller.” 

“Alright,” Monty says, feeling a smile break out on his face. He reaches out to take Miller’s hand, and Miller hesitates. After a moment he slides his fingers over Monty’s palm, and Monty laces their fingers together. He meets Miller’s eyes, giving him a small smile. “Come back to bed,” Monty says. 

Miller’s hand squeezes Monty’s hand, and Monty can see his hesitance. “I’m not sure—”

“You’ve slept next to me all these nights,” Monty says. “You should be good.” 

Miller looks away for a moment, and he smiles. He shakes his head in exasperation before moving back up the bed, settling against Monty’s back. Monty let’s go of Miller’s hand to turn around, pressing his forehead into the curve of Miller’s neck. Miller lets out a shaky laugh, his hand settling on Monty’s waist. 

Monty can hear his heartbeat, steady and comforting in Monty’s ear. 

“This is going to torture me,” Miller says.

\--

They have to take it slow. 

It’s similar to how Miller began speaking—he only knew some words and most speaking he did was short, hesitant, or none at all. They go about touching in a similar way as well, because they have to slowly introduce themselves to it. They have to get Miller used to it.

Only they want to be next to each other, with each other, as close to each other as possible, and it’s proving much harder than they thought. Monty seems to override Miller’s senses, and they don’t know how long it’s going to get them to the point where Miller is at ease with Monty’s—well, _everything_. 

They usually end up in positions like this: sitting on the bed, with Monty leaning back against Miller’s chest, Miller’s legs on either side of Monty. Miller nuzzles into Monty’s hairline, so gentle that is sends chills down Monty’s back. Monty’s telling Miller about the escapades he and Jasper used to get into, how Wells and Clarke once played hide and seek for hours and nobody could find Wells, how everyone lends books to each other to read. Miller keeps making “Hmm” noises into Monty’s skin, which means that he’s not really paying attention, focused too much on a particular spot on Monty’s neck. 

Miller gets lost in Monty a lot. 

Monty isn’t bothered by it though; he knows Miller likes his voice, so he just keeps talking, even if it’s the most mundane stuff. His voice is only background noise to Miller. 

They have to check each other when they’re like this. Monty gets lost in Miller as well, shuddering when Miller trails across the back of his neck, focuses on his shoulder or the back of his neck.

Monty feels cocooned, Miller’s arm around his waist, legs on either side, and a blanket twisted and trapped between the two of them. Monty feels as though he could fall asleep like this, but they already spent most of the day in bed—they’re still _on_ the bed—and Monty doesn’t really want to miss this. He stops talking for a moment, unable to continue the conversation, and turns his head into Miller’s nuzzling. Miller laughs, his breath gusting over Monty’s hair and neck.

“What were you saying?” whispers Miller.

Monty laughs. “Asshole,” he says, grinning and turning a little. He can’t turn far, since it hurts his neck, but Miller is already there, so it’s easy to brush their mouths together for a quick moment. Miller’s grinning when they pull apart, and he presses that grin to Monty’s skin, kissing the curve of Monty’s neck before nipping at the skin there. Monty bites off a gasp and digs his fingers into Miller’s thighs. Miller’s mouth moves along his skin, and Monty’s mind fizzles out entirely. He needs to warn Miller off, because it’s becoming _too much_ , they’re getting in too deep, and even two syllables is too much for his mind to manage. He finally gasps out, “ _Nate_ ,” not really meaning to, and yet it only causes Miller to let out a low hum against his shoulder. It’s almost sleepy, drowsy, like they’re moving slowly through time. 

Monty feels like anything Miller does is going to set him off. 

That’s a problem for them, too—sometimes something they do sets off a chain reaction. Miller’s kisses return Monty’s neck, closer to his hairline, so Monty digs his fingers into Miller’s thigh again, and since Miller’s face is right by Monty’s ear, he can hear Miller’s sharp intake of breath at the pressure of Monty’s fingers. It causes Monty’s breathing to increase, which Miller can hear, and Miller groans and—finally—pushes himself away.

Miller’s also told Monty that Monty’s scent increases when they’re intimate like this, which doesn’t help since Miller finds the scent overwhelming and addictive. Monty can’t control the scent, nor can he smell it himself, so Miller has to be the one to pull away. The positions they put themselves in usually give Miller autonomy, since it’s easier for him to pull away whenever he’s overwhelmed.

It’s exhausting in a way they hadn’t expected, especially on Miller. They can never get as close as they want, and Miller is overwhelmed by Monty’s touch and scent. They can’t find a way to win—they obviously can’t kiss too passionately, since Miller can’t focus, but if they kiss gently, it’s almost _worse_. Those kisses are soft and warm and Monty always starts shaking. 

It doesn’t get easier with time, as they thought it would. 

\--

Miller starts getting somewhat irritable, for three reasons. The first is that this is the longest he’s been human in a while. He says it causes some weird longing in him, like he misses being a wolf, and his thoughts turn unusual. 

“I told you my mind gets weird,” Miller says, and Monty offers to turn him back into the wolf, but Miller refuses. He doesn’t want to risk getting too in touch with the wolf again, not when he’s trying to hard right now to separate himself from the wolf. 

Another reason is that not being able to fully touch Monty wears on him, physically and mentally, since he’s always checking himself and dissecting what he’s feeling. 

“Can you tell me about it?” Monty asks. 

“About what?” Miller asks, looking up from where he’s sketching with the charcoal. 

“You said the wolf dominates you when you’re with me,” Monty says. “What does it feel like?” 

“I’m getting pretty tired of always saying what I’m feeling,” Miller says. Monty just glares at him until Miller sighs. “Fine, fine. It’s just unpleasant. Majorly so. Wolves, they don’t really . . . there are mates, obviously. And that’s better than if not, but otherwise wolves just . . . _take_ the other wolf.” Miller pauses, discomfort flashing on his face. “You know what I mean. There’s no permission there, because that’s how they work. But I obviously just don’t want to take you. I would _never_. So I’m trying to get past that.”

Monty nods, but he doesn’t pick his book back up, just watches Miller return to his sketching. Miller seems slightly upset, and Monty wants to be able to comfort him, but he knows that he wouldn’t be able to in the way he wants. And Miller would only get more frustrated by it.

Monty just deals with Miller’s irritableness by ignoring it or attempting to dissipate the frustration in simple ways, ways that are boiled down to the friendship that exists between them, past their feelings for each other. 

The third reason Miller is irritable is because it starts raining, a week after Miller remembers his name. 

Monty is amused by the entire affair. He loves the rain. It replenishes the earth and the plants, and once the rain stops, there’s always a slight abundance of magic in the forest. He loves the way the sun peeks through the clouds when the rain is over.

“You hate the rain?” Monty asks, trying to hide his laugh at Miller glaring at the rain outside. It’s absolutely pouring.

“It’s the _worst_ ,” Miller says, a frown still on his face. “It’s fucking wet everywhere, and all the animals are hiding from the rain so there’s hardly any food. If you do go hunting, you basically freeze to death. And then your fur is all wet and _worse_ , it can get _matted_. And the water washes over everything and blurs all the scents of the forest together, so it’s confusing to go around anywhere, even after the rain is cleared. Don’t even get me started on the forest floods.” 

Monty waits a moment, trying to see if Miller’s close to laughter, but he looks honestly upset about this. Monty laughs, moving closer to where Miller’s staring out the window. Monty presses against Miller’s back, wrapping his arms around his middle. Miller takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t move away. The rain comes down steadily, slanted slightly, and Monty can feel his magic pulsing through him like a heartbeat. 

“More of an excuse to stay inside, I guess,” Monty says. “You can’t be disappointed with that.”

Miller huffs. “I can kiss you outside as well.”

Monty hides his smile in Miller’s shoulder. 

The rain has its disadvantages, since it means that Miller has to prolong his time as a human. It makes him antsy, but it doesn’t cost Monty much in his magic. All Monty can do when it rains is make potions and kiss Miller, neither of which are objectionable, so his magic is almost working more than usual. 

Otherwise Monty loves the rain as usual. The days get slightly colder, so they spend their days curled up in the bed while Miller reads books to Monty. Miller begins the reading with an animated voice, but once he gets into it, his voice becomes scratchy with the continuous talking. His pitch gets lower, his words longer and more drawn out. Monty moves his legs slightly from where they’re tangled with Miller’s, trying to stretch out the ache. He feels guilty for spending all these days doing basically nothing, but he knows that once the rain lets up, his workload will increase threefold. 

Monty could fall asleep listening to Miller’s voice, especially as slow and deep as it is now. He looks over to Miller, eyes catching on his mouth as he speaks. Monty’s fingers twitch on the bedspread, something unfurling in his gut, and he pulls the book from Miller’s hands and tosses it on the floor. 

Miller turns to him with a confused, almost annoyed expression, but Monty just disentangles his legs from Miller’s and crawls into Miller’s lap. Miller easily accommodates him, his arms coming around Monty’s waist and pulling him close immediately, and it’s like they were in this position all day, like Miller hadn’t been reading in the first place. Monty reaches out and touches Miller’s jaw with his fingertips, reveling in the scratchiness of Miller’s scruff. 

They’d tried shaving it the other day, just to see what would happen, and it had grown back in hours. When Monty kisses Miller, he’s suddenly grateful for that fact, delighting in the way Miller’s scruff feels against his lips when he moves the kiss to Miller’s jaw and cheek. His hand cups Miller’s neck, and the pounding of Miller’s heartbeat feels seared into his palm. Monty uses his hand to tip Miller’s head up more and kisses his mouth again, makes the kiss longer and slower, as long and slow as Miller’s reading had been. A sigh rises up in Monty when Miller’s hands slide up his back, and the sigh fits perfectly into Miller’s mouth. 

Miller makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat and uses his grip on Monty to roll them over. Even though he presses Monty down into the bed, his hands sliding into Monty’s hair and making Monty shiver, his hips and mouth more insistent, the kiss is languid and tender. That’s what Miller likes best, Monty’s come to realize—desperate but gentle, soft and slow and tender but with a small bite, a scrape of teeth against Monty’s pulse. Monty groans when Miller moves his mouth to Monty’s neck—that’s what _Monty_ likes best—and is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to press closer to Miller. Monty pulls Miller flush against him, arching his body a little to fill any of the gaps left between them. Miller gasps against Monty’s neck, biting down a little, and this time, when Monty arches up, it’s because he can’t quite help it.

“Nate,” he gasps, because he only ever seems to ever say _Nate_ when they’re like this. Miller just groans, pulling the collar of Monty’s shirt down lower so he can mouth along Monty’s collarbone, warm and wet and just a little bit messy. The cool air from outside touches upon the small trail of wetness Miller leaves behind and causes Monty to give a violent shiver, his hands tightening on Miller’s shoulders. They’ve found a rhythm now, between the frantic press of their bodies and the way they grip onto each other and each heated kiss.

Miller pulls away for a moment, and Monty’s already reaching for Miller’s shirt, desperate for it to come off. When he does, though, Miller freezes. He stares at Monty for a moment, chest heaving, and then he pushes himself away entirely, disappearing off the bed and into another room. 

Monty stares at the ceiling, something like shock and disappointment running through him, and he thinks, _this isn’t working_. 

Once he knows he’s collected himself, he goes in search of Miller. He stops, confused, in the kitchen, because Miller isn’t immediately in the kitchen or living room. A cold breeze blows along his back, and he turns to the backdoor. 

Miller is outside, standing in the rain. 

Monty isn’t quite sure what to do, considering that he doesn’t even know what _Miller’s_ doing, so he waits for Miller to come back inside. When Miller turns slightly and notices him, he gives Monty a nod and starts to come back. Monty turns back into the house and sets the fire ablaze with his magic, a simple wave of his hand. Miller closes the door behind him when he enters, and he’s absolutely drenched. His clothes stick tight to his skin, hugging him and leaving practically nothing to the imagination, but Monty is used to it by now. He just follows Miller into the bedroom and grabs all of the blankets in the bedroom as Miller strips out of his soaking clothes. 

Monty dumps all of the blankets in front of the fire and moves to grab the ones from the living room area as well. Monty gives Miller one long look when he comes in, and then just holds out his hand and waits for him to take it.

Miller had only dressed in another pair of pants, choosing to remain shirtless, and Monty can see that he’s still freezing. He wraps Miller in a blanket, wraps himself around Miller with Miller’s back to his front, and then piles on the rest of the blankets on top of them as they lay in front of the fire.

Both of them are quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the rain hitting the ground and hut, and the crackle of the fire. Then Monty says, “Going outside was a bit dramatic, I’d say.”

Miller pinches Monty’s thigh. “Shut up. I needed a clear head.”

“I’m positive there are ways to do that without freezing to death,” Monty says, pulling the blanket a little bit tighter around them both. Miller’s skin has lost the goosebumps and shivers, but it’s still not as warm as Monty would like. Miller doesn’t disagree with Monty’s statement this time, just sinks down further in Monty’s arms, tipping his head back and sighing. Monty runs a comforting hand through Miller’s hair, presses his face to the top of Miller’s head, and says, “You know this isn’t working.”

“What?”

“What we’ve been doing so far. Going slow and pulling back the minute you get worried it’s too much.”

Miller is silent, and when he speaks, Monty can almost hear the frown in his voice. “What are you saying.”

“What we do now is back away the moment you touch your boundary,” Monty says, “and it’s not working.”

“So—what? You just want me to give into the wolf’s desire?”

“No, I’m saying that maybe instead of backing away the moment we so much as slightly brush your boundary, we . . . push it a little instead,” Monty says. Miller doesn’t say anything in reply, so Monty adds, “Only a little. We have to know if you can actually control yourself in these situations.”

“That can get too risky,” Miller says.

Monty sighs, his hands moving to rest on Miller’s shoulders. “I know. We’ll have to be cautious, like we have been, but we have to give us room to expand.” Then says, “If you don’t want to do this, _don’t_ , I was just suggesting—”

“No, I know,” Miller says. “I think you’re right. I’m just scared of hurting you.”

Monty know that whatever he says won’t quell Miller’s fears, so he just slides his arms around Miller’s stomach and holds him close. 

\--

The next time they get even close to it, they’re in a pretty similar situation as before, only when Miller pulls away, he stays there, breathing heavily in Monty’s neck.

“Hey, are you good?” Monty asks, running his hands over Miller’s back.

“Just—give me a moment,” Miller says.

“If you’re uncomfortable—”

“Did you want to try this or not?”

Monty says, “Only if you’re comfortable with it, Nate.”

After a moment, Miller breathes deeply and says, “I think I’m good.”

“You’re sure?” Monty asks, just to be clear, one last time.

“Yeah, just—kiss me again.” Before Monty can raise Miller’s head to meet him in a kiss, Miller rolls them over, steadying Monty on top of him with his hands. “There,” he says breathlessly, and when Monty says, “ _Nate_ ,” he grins, sharp and wicked. 

Miller keeps him close and kisses him again, and he whispers, “Come on,” into Monty’s mouth, so Monty starts moving again. He realizes as soon as he sets up a rhythm that they have to go slow again, that they’re still trying to figure this out together. Miller moves his mouth to Monty’s jaw, his neck, sucks bruises there, and Monty realizes with a jolt that they’re probably going to continue this until Monty comes, just from rubbing off on Miller’s thigh. The thought startles a moan out of him, and Miller groans into his neck. 

Monty feels so focused and haywire at the same time—part of him is losing his mind, caught in the way it feels and the warmth simmering low in his gut, and the other part of him wants to slow time and focus on the slide of Miller’s mouth against his, against his neck, the way Miller’s muscles feel when they shift under Monty’s hand, the way Miller’s hands grip Monty’s hip. Monty can feel how hard Miller is, how hard they both are, and he digs his fingers into Miller’s shoulder blades. 

Miller almost seems to feel it before Monty does, because he kisses Monty hard, more teeth than lips, and says, “Come on, Monty,” and Monty stills and comes, panting into Miller’s mouth.

Miller laughs, says, “Well, I guess that worked,” and Monty pushes at his shoulders, shifts his hip again and says, “You too.”

When Miller comes, he bites down onto Monty’s neck. 

Monty collapses onto the bed, pressed into Miller’s side, and Miller says, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“I can’t believe you _bit_ me.” 

Miller looks at him, where he’s brushing his hand over his neck. He pushes Monty’s fingers aside and skates his fingers along the side of his neck, right where he bit Monty. Monty can feel goosebumps rise on his skin at Miller’s touch.

“You’ll be fine,” Miller says. 

“Says you, the person who was not bitten,” Monty says, and Miller laughs, turning to kiss Monty again, and whispers, “Wolf,” before capturing Monty’s mouth. 

\--

As it turns out, biting becomes a _thing_ for Miller. 

He bites everywhere—Monty’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. It’s never particularly hard, not even close enough to break skin, and Miller seems to do it unconsciously, as simply as if he’s kissing Monty. He leaves bites on Monty’s chest, his hips, the insides of Monty’s thighs. One afternoon, Miller noses drowsily at Monty’s side, at one of the marks he left there, lazy and content in the patch of sun coming in from the window.

“You know,” Monty says, “maybe you wouldn’t bite so much if you knew how it felt.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Miller replied, amusement clear despite his lethargy.

As it turns out, Miller likes being bitten as well. After finding this out, Monty heaves a great sigh and says, “ _Wolf_.” 

“Wolf,” Miller agrees, grinning into the next kiss. 

\--

They don’t even realize it’s escalated to _that_ point until Miller pauses and says, “Wait—we’d need—”

Monty can feel his face burning. He groans, unsure whether it’s from embarrassment or from the need for Miller to keep touching him, but he manages to get out, “In the cabinet, where I keep my herbs and potions—there’s a salve—”

Miller groans and presses his forehead to Monty’s for a moment, then gets off the bed.

The thought comes to Monty when Miller has three fingers in him—he may have forgotten most of his memories, Monty thinks, but—

Miller crooks his fingers at just the right spot and says, laughing a little breathlessly, “I think I’ve done this before.”

Monty makes a low keening noise, desire and heat almost overtaking him, and says, “You _think_?” 

Miller just laughs and crooks his fingers more; Monty manages a breathy “You’re cruel” before Miller presses a kiss to Monty’s hip.

When Miller finally pushes in, they both still for a moment. Miller puts a reassuring hand on Monty’s flank, and Monty says, “I’m good, I’m fine,” but Miller still takes his time to gather Monty his arms. He brushes his nose against Monty’s, and it’s so sweet that Monty aches with it. He pulls Miller into a kiss, feeling full and a little overwhelmed and desperate. Miller kisses him back enthusiastically, although he slows the kiss down at the end, and Monty says, a bit fiercely, “Nate, _move_ already.” 

Even when he starts moving, Miller keeps it slow, his hips moving at a pace that’s almost torturous. Monty holds onto him so tightly he feels like he’ll break skin, but Miller only groans at the way Monty digs his hands into Miller’s back. Miller presses his face into Monty’s neck, kissing and worrying the skin there, and Monty shivers every time Miller sucks a bruise into his skin. Monty’s not sure how well the quick healing works on Miller when he’s not a werewolf, but Monty’s sure that he’s leaving red marks down Miller’s back. 

Miller seems to like it almost as much as he likes Monty biting him. Heat crawls along Monty’s skin, and when Miller kisses him—more breathing against each other’s mouths than anything—and moans Monty’s name into his mouth, Monty feels inflamed. It feels so good, almost too good, like the only thing Monty is made of is magic and pleasure, twisting together with every thrust. Miller’s hands slide along Monty’s skin, and Monty tightens his legs around Miller’s hips, tilting his hips up for a better angle. 

When Monty comes, he’s biting into Miller’s bottom lip. Miller groans when Monty clenches down, and he comes only a few thrusts later.

Afterwards, Monty lies with his head on Miller’s shoulder, tracing runes into Miller’s skin. Miller hasn’t said anything since they collapsed back onto the blankets, but he runs his hand up and down Monty’s back. 

Monty attempts to draw as many runes as he can remember, traces _energy_ onto Miller’s hip, _release_ onto one of his ribs, _contact_ on Miller’s shoulder, _safety_ on Miller’s palm when Miller offers it up for Monty’s use, and then _magic_ on Miller’s chest. There’s a small pulse of magic when Monty does the last one, and Miller gives a full-body shiver. 

“What was that last one?” he asks, shifting Monty in his arms. 

“The rune for _magic_ ,” Monty says. “I didn’t think anything would happen.” 

“Does something usually happen?” 

“It depends. If you draw the rune on the earth or something, it’d be weird if it didn’t work. I don’t really use runes on people, unless they’re healing runes. It should really only work on humans if it’s during a handfasting.”

“Would you write words like that? ‘Magic,’ I mean,” Miller says. “I thought runes were just, I don’t know, symbols. I didn’t know they were actual words.” 

“Yes, they’re words,” Monty says. “I saw two handfastings when I was younger—they don’t really do the magical kind anymore, since only magical people do it and I’m it for the Ark. I mean, Jasper and Maya handfasted, but they didn’t paint any runes. And they shouldn’t, either way, because they’re humans. The runes are magical in and of themselves—the paint used is infused with magic, so that when you paint the runes, it’s binding through your own magic and through the magic in the rune paint.” 

Miller’s hand pauses at the small of Monty’s back. He turns his head slightly when he speaks, his lips brushing against Monty’s forehead. “Can it only be between two magic users, or can it be between a human and magic user?”

“Both,” Monty says. “All kinds of pairings, as long as one of them has magic.”

“And why runes? Are they binding?”

Monty leans himself up on his elbow to look down at Miller’s face. Monty can feel Miller’s hand slide up the back of his neck, and he turns his head into it, feels himself relax a little bit further. 

“Yes, they’re binding,” Monty says. “Since the runes are words, you paint words on each other that you’d want in your relationship. Words like love and fidelity and understanding and whatever else you want to define your relationship.”

“And magic,” Miller adds with a smile. His fingers tap restlessly along the side of Monty’s neck, his jaw, his hairline. 

“And magic,” Monty repeats, smiling back. “Handfastings signify that you’re not longer two people, but one bound together. So they write the same words on each other, and they’ll put the magic rune so that they technically have shared magic.” Monty shrugs one of his shoulders. “The magic isn’t actually transferred or shared between them, but it signifies that they wish it so.” Monty traces Miller’s collarbone with his fingertips and keeps his eyes at that spot when he says, “So, if it was us, I would paint the rune for magic on you, and you would paint the rune for wolf on me.” 

“Even though you’re not one,” Miller says. 

“No. But it shows that the burden is no longer yours to carry; that as one, there is technically some aspect of me that’s the wolf as well.” Monty pauses and allows himself to meet Miller’s eyes now. “The magic binds the words we paint to each other. So if someone painted _fidelity_ and cheated on their partner, the magic binding them together would break.”

“All of it?” Miller asks, with a raise of his eyebrows.

“The ceremony is binding them together as whole, and the runes and magic are reinforced by the magic in the rune paint. If one rune is no longer true, all of them are broken.” 

“That’s intense,” Miller says.

“So is magic,” Monty says. 

Miller’s hand slides down Monty’s shoulder, coming over to rest against Monty’s heart. “Does the paint stay?” Miller asks, his thumb brushing over Monty’s collarbone. “Or does it disappear?”

“They’re not tattoos, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Monty says. 

Miller presses his hand against Monty’s chest more firmly, leaning in to brush his nose against Monty’s collarbone. “Pity,” he whispers. 

Monty shivers, grasping onto Miller’s neck. “Stop it with the sniffing already.”

“But you smell so—”

“Good, I _know_.”

“You really don’t,” Miller says with a groan. His lips brush against the curve of Monty’s neck. “It’s stronger. And you smell like _me_.”

“I wonder why,” Monty says, a small bit of breathlessness showing in his voice. Miller laughs, bright and loud, and then bites down in slight admonishment. 

Miller kisses his way up Monty’s neck, and when he reaches Monty’s ear, he says, “Tell me about lovers again. I think I’ve forgotten.” 

_Asshole_ , Monty thinks fondly, and then laughs, shakes his head, and lets Miller claim him in a kiss. “A demonstration is more apt,” he whispers, and pushes Miller back down to Miller’s laughter.

\--

Monty is reading over Raven’s notes on the damage done to the village during the storm and all the work they’re going to have to do in repairs when a loud knocking comes on the door. Before Monty can even get up from his chair, Octavia’s voice is coming through the door. “Monty!” she yells.

When he opens the door, she blows inside, sweeping through every room. “They’re not here, are they?” she demands, after coming out of Monty’s bedroom.

“Bellamy and Miller?” Monty asks, because there’s no one else she’d be talking about. “No, they went to see how far and long Miller’s territory goes. They were checking out the border today.” 

“When will they be back?” 

“I don’t know,” Monty says, and Octavia makes a distressed noise and collapses to the ground, her head in her hands. “Octavia, what’s wrong?”

“They’re hunting today,” Octavia says. “The village.”

Monty stops, staring at her with a faint horror inside his chest. “They wouldn’t,” he says, and does a mental calculation in his head. “The full moon isn’t for another week—”

“I’m not having hallucinations!” Octavia exclaims. “They were all getting ready for a hunt, I saw them with their weapons, and I immediately came here because I hoped—I _thought_ —that they were here.” 

Monty steps forward and takes her hand, trying to calm the panic in her voice. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. Let’s go back to the village and check things out. It may not even be a wolf hunt. And if it is, Bellamy and Miller know how to take care of themselves.”

Octavia looks away for a moment, but eventually she nods and lets Monty lead her out of the house. They walk briskly back to the village, and when the path opens up to the main clearing, the village is mostly empty, save for a few people walking around. Monty strains his ears for the hunting parties, but he can’t hear them.

“Raven,” he says to Octavia, and she nods. They make their way over to the blacksmith.

Raven’s working inside, fixing up some daggers that look vaguely familiar to Monty. They must belong to someone he knows, like Harper or Clarke. Raven smiles when she sees them. 

“Come to join the party?” she asks, examining the dagger underneath a microscope for a moment. 

“Not exactly,” Octavia says, and her brusque manner immediately makes Raven stop her work and pay attention. “Why is everyone going out tonight? Is there a hunt?”

Raven’s eyebrows draw together. “Of course.”

“Why?” 

Raven gives Octavia a look as though it should be obvious. “It’s the anniversary for Wells, of course.”

Monty feels his body go cold, only aware of Octavia saying, “Wells? What’s a Wells? Why is that important?”

“Fuck,” Monty says, rubbing a hand over his face. How could he have forgotten? The anniversary of Wells’s death was today, of fucking course, and he meant to warn Miller and Octavia and Bellamy, but with Miller, everything had gotten confused and jumbled together—

“I don’t understand,” Octavia says.

“The reason the wolf hunts started,” Monty says, feeling some wave of defeat wash over him, “was because Jaha’s son was taken and killed by the wolf.” 

“Wells Jaha,” Raven adds, picking up her daggers again. She’s looking between them warily, as though trying to figure out why they’re acting so strange. 

“Wells is the councilor’s son,” Octavia says slowly, and she looks to Monty with an understanding on her face. She’s already made the connection between Miller and Wells, and Monty gives a sharp jerk of her head to keep her quiet. 

“Thank you, Raven,” Monty says, forcing a smile on his face. “I’m a horrible person to forget. I’ll make sure to give Jaha my well-wishes when he returns from the hunt.”

“Monty, don’t worry about it too much,” Raven says with a smile. “He’s not focused on who did or didn’t pay their respects tonight.”

 _No_ , Monty thinks, _he’s focused on killing the wolf, but there are two instead of one in the forest tonight_. 

“Of course,” Monty says, “but thanks anyways.” Octavia is already making her way for the door when Monty turns, and when they leave the blacksmith’s hut, Monty has to jog to catch up. “Octavia,” he says. 

“Is this going to be a problem,” she says tightly. “Will it be any different than the full moon?”

Monty won’t lie to her. “Yes,” he says. “If it’s Wells’s anniversary . . . they’re going to be out there with more vehemence. They’ll want it more than usual. They’ll do anything.” Octavia makes a pained noise. “You don’t understand how devastating his death was, how much it still affects us.”

“Obviously I do,” Octavia says, “since they’re still hunting for the wolf years later, and my _brother_ is in danger because of it.” Her hands clench into fists. “I have to go find him.”

“ _No_ ,” Monty says, blocking her from walking. “You’re just going to increase the risk of one of you getting hurt.”

“My brother—”

“Wouldn’t want you to do something as rash as jumping in the forest after him, especially when there are that many hunters,” Monty interrupts. “This is the biggest hunt of the year, and you want to put _all three_ wolves in the forest?” He looks around to make sure no one is close enough to overhear them. “Come back with my to my place. If Miller and Bellamy are going to go anywhere after they check the border, it’s mine. We’ll wait for them there.” 

Octavia gives him a hard stare, and for a moment Monty thinks she won’t listen to him. Finally she nods, her jaw clenching, and says, “If it gets too late, I’m going in after them, and you can’t stop me.”

“Alright,” Monty says. “If the time comes, I won’t stop you.”

Octavia nods, knowing he’ll keep his promise, and she follows him back to his house. Once they get there, however, she’s how Miller is on most days—restless, unwilling to keep still, pacing back and forth across Monty’s house, and tense. He tries to get her to look over Raven’s reports with him, but she snarls that nothing is as important as this, so he leaves her be. She’s tense, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, clenching and unclenching her hands as she paces. Monty can tell that not doing anything is killing her, so he stands and says, “Come with me.” Octavia glares at him but decides to follow him anyways, and Monty sighs in relief. He takes her to the field behind his house, and crosses his arms as he looks at her. 

“Alright,” he says, “how far do you think we can go in that’s safe?”

Octavia raises an eyebrow. “Are we—”

Monty raises his hand to stop her. “Not what you’re thinking of. I’m going to draw a magical border in the forest. If Miller or Bellamy cross it, we’ll know. How far in?”

Octavia’s jaw clenches as she surveys the forest around them. Monty knows she’s still not happy with what they’re doing, but at least it’s something. At least they’re not completely helpless. “Follow me,” she says. 

He wonders if she has a better sense of the forest as a wolf, but she doesn’t shift, and Monty’s relieved for it. If he and Octavia are seen now, it’ll look like they just came from Monty’s house; if he and a wolf were seen, there wouldn’t be a chance to explain before spears were thrown Octavia’s way. She leads him into the forest, about thirty feet in, before stopping and throwing her arms out in a way that says _well?_ Monty shakes his head and follows her to where the general edge of the forest is and starts a small spell. This isn’t really a spell, more a marker, and it’s the longest he’s ever drawn. Octavia leads him through the forest until they reach the other side, and when Monty drops his spell, he can still feel the magic slightly in the air. He steps on the line he’s drawn warily, and when he does, he feels it up his spine, can see the entire line in his mind as clearly as if it were physically marked in the earth. It creates a wide arc around Monty’s house, and, satisfied, he steps off. He and Octavia stare at each other for a moment before Octavia sighs and makes her way back to his house. 

Octavia checks to make sure Bellamy and Miller aren’t inside the house, as they could have come in before Monty had drawn his magical border. Monty already knows from the defeated slump of Octavia’s shoulders that they’re not there, and she leans against the railing of his back porch, staring so intensely at the forest that for a moment Monty believes that Bellamy and Miller will appear, just by the sheer force of Octavia’s will. 

But they don’t appear. Octavia slumps a little further, bowing her head and staring at her fingers, where she’s twisting them together. 

“Octavia,” Monty says. “It’s going to be okay. Bellamy’s going to come back.”

“I can’t lose him,” Octavia says. “He’s my brother and my best friend, my family and my pack. He’s all I have left. I can’t—”

“And you won’t,” Monty says. “I know you hate it, but there’s not much we can do.”

Octavia gives a short laugh at that. “You’re right,” she says, “I hate it.” She shakes herself. “Sorry I’ve been rude to you. I know you feel the same way.”

Monty nudges her with his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “We handle it different ways. I’ve been forcing myself not to think about it, or to think about it calmly. All you’re doing is thinking about it.”

That gets a small smile out of Octavia. She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, she’s still staring out at the trees. “I can smell him on you, you know.” Monty feels his face heat up. He doesn’t say anything, mostly because he doesn’t know _what_ to say, and Octavia smiles a little more. “I couldn’t smell it before,” she says, “but now that you’re mated, it’s distinctive.” 

Monty jerks a little. “What?”

Octavia tilts her head, and the movement almost seems wolflike. “You didn’t know?”

“No, that’s—that’s impossible.” Monty stares at her, trying to comprehend what she’s saying. “I thought mating only happens with werewolves.”

“That’s true,” she says. “Then again, Miller isn’t your average werewolf, is he? And you’re magic.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I can smell your change in scent, so I _know_ you’re mated. I suppose you can’t say it’s impossible anymore, can you?”

Monty turns away from her and stares out at the trees. He remembers Miller saying, _It’s stronger. And you smell like_ me _._ He presses a hand to his mouth so that Octavia can’t hear his panicked breathing. He didn’t know, and of course Miller didn’t know, because Octavia and Bellamy wouldn’t think it’s possible and wouldn’t tell him. 

“I didn’t know,” Monty says, in answer to Octavia’s earlier question. “A person’s scent—it changes?”

Octavia nods. “It’s like a marker to other werewolves, that this one is already with someone and there’s no point in trying.” She grimaces. “It doesn’t stop people from trying, but usually they end up getting torn to pieces by the other mate.” She notices the slightly horrified expression on his face and laughs. “It seems like an overreaction, but the bond between mates is so strong, no one would dare break it. If two people from enemy nations were mates, the leaders of those nations wouldn’t dare stop it. We have a bunch of stories like that from history.” Octavia casts him a sideways glance. “Did Bellamy ever tell you why we left? Why we left our original pack?”

“No.” 

Octavia considers him for a moment, then says, “It’s because of my mate.”

Monty startles. “You _have_ a mate?” He remembers Bellamy saying, _She had someone_ , but he didn’t know it was current. 

“Not anymore,” Octavia says. She closes her eyes, her voice pained. “He disappeared and never came back.” 

Monty winces. “I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t _leave_ me,” Octavia snaps. “Lincoln would never leave me. He was taken.” 

“Taken?” 

Octavia looks at Monty, her expression hard. When her gaze returns to the trees, she looks considerably more upset. “Bellamy and I lived with the werewolf clans of _Grounduesa_ ,” she starts. “We had a pack there, from our mother. Bellamy’s father was killed; the pack life didn’t suit my father. He was always a wanderer. Bell and I didn’t care much, since we had each other. He looked after me. He _always_ looked after me,” she says, her voice breaking. “The clans don’t want the other countries to know, but there’s a lot of infighting. They have a lot of enemies between each other, but no other country will accept werewolves. Bellamy and I lived with Skaikru for a while. At the time, the clans had managed to calm their infighting because we all had one larger enemy.”

“The mountain people,” Monty says. 

Octavia nods. “We have a long history between us. They’ve always hated werewolves, called us abominations and monsters; we hated them for killing us. Now, we either ignore each other or we fight with each other. Any trading between us is done through the other two countries as intermediates. The clans came together and elected a leader, the Commander, who would represent us against the mountain clans. Instead of fighting, however, we came up with a treaty with the mountain clans. Not an alliance—we’d never trust them that much—but a pact. A truce. Relations were good for once, things were peaceful between the two countries, and then people started disappearing.

“We thought it was the other clans, at first. There were accusations everywhere. Bellamy and I became nervous, since Skaikru’s territory is located between three other clans, and we moved to another clan area. They were a border clan called Trikru. We originally weren’t going to stop there, but then I met Lincoln. And you can tell, when you first meet your mate, if they’re your mate or not. You can smell it. So Bell and I stayed. Trikru are generally peaceful people, concerned more with border disputes with the mountain clans than with the other Grounder clans, but after we stayed longer, the more tense it became. Trikru didn’t outright accuse any other clan of the disappearances, since we didn’t have any true enemies with the other clans, but when we asked around, we noticed that we had way more people disappear than the other clans. That’s when we started thinking it was the mountain people.

By then it was too late. No one thought, with such a huge truce, that the mountain people would do it—obviously, it had to be someone else. But _our_ people were disappearing on the border, and then important people went missing. Lincoln’s best friend disappeared, one of our healers. Our second in command’s mate disappeared, a woman named Costia. The Commander, Anya, was almost taken. Bell and Lincoln were getting nervous. And then one day, when Lincoln went out with a hunting party, he didn’t come back.” Octavia brushes her fingers over her eyes, holds them over her eyelids for a moment, and shakes her head. “Bell wanted to leave immediately, but I wouldn’t give up like that. He promised me six months. I searched and searched, but we couldn’t find him, and when we contacted the other clans, they didn’t know either. The sixth month came, and at the end of it, Bell and I left. We knew that _Grounduesa_ was being targeted, so we came to the other countries. This one is more tolerant of werewolves than the others, but only in certain places.” 

“And then you ended up here,” Monty says. 

“And then we ended up here,” Octavia says, shaking her head. Her fingers are clutching the rail of the porch tightly, her knuckles white. “It’s been hard for Bell and I. We had to give up everything, our pack and our home and our culture and my mate, but . . . we’re safer here. And we don’t know what’s happening to our people, if the war has come yet, if our people have ever been found and given justice . . .” 

Monty wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” 

Octavia leans into his touch, an acceptance of his comfort. “We all should’ve left,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “All three of us. I didn’t want to leave him. But we stayed because we wanted to figure it out, to get our people back. We should’ve known that the Wallaces would be dishonorable, that they wouldn’t uphold the truce.” Octavia laughs, all acid and bitterness. “That’s probably why they did it. Get us in a truce, wait until we’re not aware of what they’re doing, get us fighting with each other. We weren’t weak, the clans never are, but in the face of the Mountain Men’s plan? Weak was all we were.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and says, “I _can’t_ lose Bellamy. I can’t lose everyone I love.” 

Monty startles at her words. His mind is caught on _the Wallaces_ , something sparking in his brain, and he says, “Octavia, how long ago wa—”

He’s interrupted by a ripple of magic. He can see it come towards him, _for_ him, coming from the forest and closing in on him. It reaches him in seconds, and it sends a wave of magic up his back, so forceful, for a moment, that he has to clutch at the rail to keep himself steady. 

Octavia grabs his arm and holds him until the magic passes. “What is it?” she asks, breathless with anticipation. They both know what the magic means. 

“ _Someone_ crossed the barrier,” Monty says. They look at each other for only a moment before Octavia pushes herself off the porch, runs down the steps, and waits in the middle of the grass clearing. 

“Where did it come from?” she asks. 

Monty follows her down into the clearing, kneeling so he can place his hands in the dirt. Monty closes his eyes and feels with his magic for a moment, before raising his arm to his right. “That direction,” he says, pushing himself to his feet again. Octavia bounces on her feet but she doesn’t leave. They both realize it’s better to wait for them to come here than to run into the forest and possibly miss them. 

After a moment, they see movement in the trees, and for a moment Monty doesn’t breathe at all, nerves and fear and anticipation catching up to him at once. Then the person moves into the clearing, and it’s _Miller_ , and Monty is moving before he even realizes it, running and launching himself at Miller. Miller catches him and holds Monty close. His arms and body are solid, strong, and Monty feels enveloped in warmth. It takes Monty a moment to realize that Miller’s laughing, and he becomes aware of what Miller’s saying: “—you’d think I was gone for two weeks the way you’re acting, I missed you too—” and everything is suddenly, sharply wrong. 

Monty pushes back from Miller’s embrace and looks past Miller’s shoulder, but there’s no one else coming through the trees. Monty looks back to Octavia, who stumbles forward in her fear and demands, “Miller, where’s Bellamy?” 

The expression on Miller’s face tells them that realization is slowly dawning on him. “He wanted to follow the border more,” Miller says, and Octavia makes a noise like she’s been shot. “Why? What happened?”

Monty takes Miller’s hand. “There’s a wolf hunt today,” he says, “for the anniversary of Wells’s death.”

Miller doesn’t need explanation like Octavia did, but their reaction is the same. His body stiffens, and a horrified expression takes over face. 

“That’s it,” Octavia says. “I’m going after Bell.” 

Monty turns to Octavia. “No—Octavia, wait.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t stop me.”

“And I’m not. Let Miller and me come with you—and let Miller be the wolf.” Octavia looks enraged at that. “Miller was just with Bellamy, so he can lead us there, and he can follow Bellamy’s scent. I know you can too,” he adds, before she starts arguing, “but you’re a better fighter than Miller is when human. We’ll need you as a human.” 

Octavia considers it, but they don’t have much time, so she says, “Fine. Miller, will you do it?”

“Of course,” Miller says. He gives Monty’s hand one last squeeze and turns back into a wolf. Octavia takes the knives she keeps in her boots out and makes a gesture at Miller that says, _lead the way_.

Monty clasps Octavia’s shoulder to reassure her. She takes a deep breath and nods, and then they all pour into the forest. 

\--

The forest is still slightly creepy at its prettiest moments, long shadows cast by the tall trees and thick foliage covering the forest floor. At night, it’s worse, the moonlight hardly making it easier to decipher the dark shadows from the night, the feeling that animals are watching and can attack from every corner, and the various sounds that permeate the cold night air only add to the shivers running down their backs. 

The fact that they’re being hunted down makes it almost horrific. 

Miller leads the way to the previous area they’d been in at the border, and then he takes his time sniffing out Bellamy’s scent. Bellamy had to have been at this spot for some time, Octavia tells him, for Miller to smell the area for so long. She imagines that they must have talked here for a certain amount of time. 

Eventually Miller starts trotting away, following a line moving away from where they came from. Octavia takes the back, her fingers flexing over the daggers she’s holding. Miller doesn’t seem to be following the border he talked about, because the direction he heads towards cuts through the forest, more in the direction of the village. 

At some point, they can hear one of the hunting groups in the distance; Miller stops and crouches behind some bushes, and Monty and Octavia follow. Miller is low on his haunches, and he makes a low growling noise.

Monty puts his hand on Miller’s fur, not pushing his magic into him, just resting it there to warn him off. Octavia slowly raises herself to see over the bushes, trying to see where the villagers are. Their voices are still loud in the forest, and Monty realizes it’s because the voices are getting _louder_. A couple heartbeats later, a single torch can be seen in the distance. Another appears, and then another, and the voices start to become distinguishable. 

Octavia jerks her head back down, flattening herself against the ground. The voices are coming closer, and Monty realizes with a flash of horror, _towards_ them. He hisses this fear to Octavia, but she shakes her head and whispers back, “I saw their direction. They’ll come close, but they won’t hit us.”

Monty’s not sure which is louder, their voices or the sound of his heartbeat. Their voices are excited, he realizes, and as they move ever closer to them, he can understand what they’re saying.

“Are you sure it was this way?” one voice asks. 

“I’m positive,” another voice responds. Monty recognizes it as Kane’s, and he and Octavia exchange a glance. 

“The wolf won’t be able to get far,” a voice says, and Monty jolts. It’s _Harper_. Octavia jolts because she mentioned the wolf. “If you really shot it with an arrow, we should be able to find it.” 

That starts a loud argument between everyone in the group, and finally Monty sees them pass them. Their backs are to them as they walk by, but still, Monty, Octavia, and Miller don’t make any sound or move a single inch. Their voices start to fade in the night, and before the last torch disappears, Octavia says, “We have to follow them.”

“What?” Monty asks. Miller makes a small whine next to Monty, so Monty releases Miller’s fur. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been gripping it so tightly.

“Didn’t you hear them? They shot a wolf. Since two out of the three are here, they have to be following Bell.”

Miller makes another whining noise, so Monty looks at him, confused. Miller nudges Monty’s hand with his snout, so Monty lets his magic wash over Miller and turn him back to human.

“What if they did shoot him,” Monty says, “but they’re not actually following him? They could be going the wrong direction.”

Octavia’s jaw clenches. “It’s _something_!” 

“I think she’s right,” Miller says. “If they shot him, he would’ve had a moment to stumble, and they would’ve had all the adrenaline and ability to catch up. My best guess? He used the wolf’s strength and power to run far away, and then turned into a human to hide easier.” At the looks Monty and Octavia give him, he says, “It’s what I would’ve done.” 

Monty says, “You can’t turn into a wolf by yourself, Miller.” 

“We’ll never find him,” Octavia says, “ _and_ he’s hurt.” 

“He’s smart,” Miller says. “And he’ll be hiding. We should follow them. He won’t be far from the direction they’re going.”

“It’s decided, then,” Octavia says, and doesn’t wait for them to all get up. She sets off in the direction the hunting party went in, impatient and desperate to find her brother.

Miller pushes himself up and says as they’re following Octavia, “I’m going to turn back. We’ll have a better chance of finding him if I’m a wolf.”

“Are you sure?”

Miller nods. “If he does turn human, the villagers will be looking for the wrong tracks—wolf instead of human. And I can track him better by scent than they could if he does stay a wolf.” 

Monty steps back to let Miller turn and follows him as he runs after Octavia. They catch up to her slowly stalking the village group, staying far enough behind so that their torches are always in sight and their voices heard, but not enough for them to see her. 

Monty tells her, “Miller’s going to try and catch Bellamy’s scent on the way there.”

Octavia nods, letting out a drawn-out breath, and Monty squeezes her arm in reassurance. He doesn’t think that Bellamy is dead, but he’s worried about how serious the arrow wound may be. Miller veers a little to the left, trying to catch Bellamy’s scent that way, and Octavia stops when the villagers stop. They’re discussing something up ahead, arguing between themselves again, and Miller lets out another low whine. 

“He needs to be quiet,” Octavia says, and makes a silencing motion with her hand at Miller. Miller just whines again, his body moving back and forth impatiently. 

“I think he has the scent,” Monty says, and they follow Miller cautiously. The hunting party isn’t far from them, so they’re careful not to make too much noise, only letting out faint whispers between them as they talk. The further they walk on, the more Monty’s fear and worry rises for Bellamy—the wolves are quick healers, but the healing will be quicker and safer if they’re back with Monty.

Miller starts moving faster, veering sharply at one point and sticking by a tree. Octavia nudges Monty with her elbow and points to a dark spot on the ground. 

“I think that’s blood,” she says, quiet. “He must have stopped here.”

Miller’s heading off again, back towards the other hunters. They can hear the voices again, their voices and laughter loud, and Octavia stops. Monty stops with her and hisses out a warning for Miller to pause as well. 

“What is it?”

“Their voices . . .” Octavia tilts her head. “That’s not coming from our right, where the other hunting party was.”

Monty closes his eyes and listens. Then he reaches down and touches the ground, trying to send his magic outwards. He can’t feel any of the people, since he doesn’t have markers everywhere, but he can feel the way certain plants are being crushed under weight. And the plants being crushed follow a certain path, like the way humans walk in lines. 

There are two such paths. One to their right, which must be the hunting party they already encountered, and another one slightly to their left. That party must be coming to meet the other, Monty realizes. They’re all trying to close in on the wolf.

Monty waits another second, trying to see if there are any other indications of crushed plants where Bellamy would be, but he must be out of Monty’s range. Monty stands and tells Octavia, “The other group is coming from our left. I think they’re trying to sweep the forest.”

“And Bellamy? Did you feel him?”

“No. He must be just out of my range. I hope that if we follow Miller more, he’ll just get inside of it.”

Octavia nods, an expression on her face that’s half between desperation and determination. Monty remembers her telling him that she searched for months for her mate, and he was never found—he can’t imagine what turmoil she’s in right now, trying to keep calm as they can’t find her brother.

Miller continues to drag them through the forest, and on more than one occasion, they have to duck down to hide from the hunting parties. Every time they duck down, Monty feels the earth for Bellamy. He gets nothing until the fourth time. Something seems to glimmer, but it’s almost coming back towards them. And whoever it is moves slowly, stopping every minute or so. Stopping, it seems, as Monty takes into account the position of the two hunting parties, to avoid the villagers.

“I think I found him,” Monty says, pushing himself up. A relieved gasp escapes Octavia. “He’s coming back towards us. We’ll need to intercept him and bring him back to my place.” He touches Miller’s fur lightly and stays in front of him as he walks to let Miller know that Monty is the one leading. He walks slowly so that they don’t miss Bellamy when he comes back up. Octavia and Miller walk next to him, and they stay quiet so that they’re able to hear anything coming toward them, whether it be hunting parties or Bellamy. Octavia keeps one arm raised, knife poised for throwing in her hand, and her eyes move side to side. 

Finally they hear some noise. It’s muffled, like whoever it is is trying to be quiet but can’t quiet help themselves. Like someone who got shot with an arrow might be.

Octavia and Monty stop, so Miller stops as well, and they all wait. Miller’s ears flick back and forth, trying to distinguish between sounds. When they stop moving, it’s easier to hear the other sounds. Whoever is coming towards them steps on the occasional leaf and twig.

Still, no one says anything. It might not be Bellamy, and they don’t want to give away their position—or Miller. Octavia exchanges a look with Monty, and he can tell by the hesitation there that she doesn’t want to say anything either.

Then she says, “If it were the villagers, we’d have heard them by now. And if it was a single villager, they would have a torch.” She pauses and considers. “If not, we could take them.”

Monty nods his head. “Alright. Do it.”

Octavia turns back to the direction of the noises, and she calls out, “Bellamy! Is that you?”

The noises get louder, and the person comes into view. A _wolf_ comes into view, and Octavia lets out a half-choked sob and rushes toward the wolf. There’s an arrow sticking out of the wolf’s upper thigh. She hugs Bellamy close, speaking in his ear, and brushes her hands over his fur. Miller rushes forward as well, making low whining noises, and Bellamy responds with a pained noise himself. 

“We have to go back,” Octavia says, her voice thick. “Right now.” 

Monty touches Miller’s fur again and follows Octavia back to Monty’s house, and Bellamy follows suit. Miller stays by Bellamy’s side as they walk, and that makes Monty notice that they’re moving at a much slower pace than when they were just with Miller. _He’s hurt badly_ , Monty thinks. 

“Octavia,” he says, keeping his voice low. Even though they’ve found Bellamy, they still don’t want to be found. When she comes closer, he continues. “I think Bellamy’s hurt badly,” he says, “and we’re going so slow it’s making me worried. Would we move faster if he were human?” 

Octavia glances back at Bellamy and watches the way he walks. His right back leg drags slightly as he walks. “I don’t think so,” she says. “As a human, that arrow might be piercing one of his legs and make him even slower. He’s stronger as a wolf. I think this is our best chance.”

Monty doesn’t like it, but she knows better, so he nods. In his head, he’s already thinking of all the plants he’ll need to heal Bellamy, making a time frame for how long the healing potions would take. He should race back to his house and get started on it, so by the time Bellamy gets there the potions would be closer to getting ready, but the thought of leaving them again on this night makes Monty shiver. So he grits his teeth and tries to focus on the fact that every step makes him closer to his house and closer to treating Bellamy.

Monty knows they’re close when the cross the barrier he marked. Magic shoots up Monty’s body, and he turns to Octavia. “We just hit my barrier, so we’re not far now,” he tells her. They must be far from the villagers by now, but he’s still whispering. “I’m going to run ahead and start getting supplies ready for healing him.”

Octavia nods. Monty takes her hand and squeezes it, says, “We’ve found him and I’m gonna heal him. It’s all okay now.” She nods again and Monty tries to give her a reassuring smile before taking off. 

Monty bursts into his house, discomforted by the absolute quiet and stillness of his house. He opens his medicine cabinet and looks at the herbs he has, pulling out everything he needs for cleaning wounds and setting in healing ingredients. He pulls them all out and places them on the counter, then looks back at the cabinet. It would probably help Bellamy to have a sleeping draught as well, just to set his mind at ease and let his body focus on the wound. He doesn’t have all the ingredients, though—too little sage. 

He sets the fire in the fireplace and starts getting the healing potion ready, crushing marigold in a mortar with his pestle. When he hears Miller, Bellamy, and Octavia clambering up the steps, he gets out long strips of cloth and lays them on the counter.

Bellamy’s a human when Miller and Octavia carry him in, the arrow protruding from his upper right thigh. There’s a steady trickle of blood running down his leg, and when he’s laid out on the table, he groans in pain. 

“Take that arrow out,” Monty tells Octavia. “The wound needs to be cleaned as well, and once you’ve gotten rid of most of the blood, keep pressure on it. Wrap it in the bandages I’ve laid out.” 

Octavia nods once he’s finished and immediately sets to work. Miller comes over to Monty and says, “What do I need to do?” 

“I want to brew him a sleeping draught, but I don’t have enough sage. Can you get it for me?”

“Of course. How much?”

“As much as you can bring.”

“Alright. Can I—?” Miller hesitates, but Monty lets him reach into the herb cabinet. Monty points him to the sage he does have, and Miller smells it once before dropping and nodding. “Alright, I know where some is,” Miller says. “I recognize it. I won’t be long.”

“Don’t be,” Monty says. “They’re still out there.”

Miller pauses for a moment, searching Monty’s face, before he leans in and captures Monty’s mouth in a short, sweet kiss. “I’ll be careful,” he whispers, and then he’s gone.

Monty shakes himself to focus and returns to making the potion. Bellamy makes a choked noise when Octavia pulls out the arrow, and small noises of pain hisses through his grit teeth as Octavia cleans the wound. Monty wants to hurry with his mixing and crushing, but he doesn’t want to mess up and have to take more time, so he forces himself to breathe in and out and focus. Bellamy’s head makes a dull noise when it thuds back against the counter. His breathing is less frantic, but Monty worries about it slowing down too much.

He takes over the mixture of plants and places it in the cauldron on the fire. He stays over by the cauldron even though he wants to be over by Bellamy, but he can’t afford to be distracted right now. These potions require a meticulous following to the directions, or who the fuck knows what happens. 

After most of the harder directions have passed, Monty just waits for the potion to finish cooking. Miller comes into the room, holding a giant bunch of sage in his hand, and he returns it to the cabinet. Monty signals for him to come over.

“In about seven minutes,” he says, “this potion should turn a light blue color. It doesn’t matter what shade, as long as it’s light blue. Watch it while I make the other potion.”

Miller nods, but before Monty can go far, he pulls Monty into a tight hug. Monty lets himself be enfolded and hugs back tightly, pressing his forehead against Miller’s forehead. Miller’s safe, they’re all safe, and Monty can heal Bellamy. Everything will be okay. 

Monty extracts himself from Miller and begins to work on the sleeping draught. Sleeping draughts are much easier to make than other potions. Since he only needs a small dose to get Bellamy asleep, he decides to make it one he can inhale instead of drink—and it saves him time when it comes to wait for it to brew completely. The chemicals in the plants create an aroma that knocks the person out. All he needs to do is add water to it and have Bellamy inhale. 

Since Miller isn’t ready yet, Monty mixes some of the more healing plant (aloe, crushed ferns and golden poppy petals, mixed with blackberry juice) to create a salve that he can spread directly over the wound. He hands the salve to Octavia and tells her to spread it over the wound, “Gently,” he says, and she nods and gets to work.

Miller calls Monty over a couple minutes later. Monty tips the cauldron to look at the color, and when he sees the light blue, he can’t quiet keep the relief from the way his shoulders slump. They put out the fire, and uses another vial to measure out how much Bellamy should take. 

He hands the vial over to Bellamy when he’s done, the vial filled about halfway. Bellamy pushes himself to his elbow, sharing a look with Monty before taking the vial. His side is pressed down with bandages, and they almost look soaked through with blood, but Monty knows that it’s just the way the salve looks from the blackberry mixed in. 

“Usually I’d give you more,” Monty says, “but with your werewolf healing . . . I didn’t want to overload your body and possibly do more damage.”

Bellamy nods and tips the vial against his mouth, swallowing down the potion. He grimaces a little, touching his mouth briefly, and then hands the vial back.

“I also have a potion of sorts for sleeping,” Monty says. “It’s easier for healing, and I figured you’ve had an exhausting day.”

“So much so that I don’t really need the help,” Bellamy says, but he takes the vial anyways. He almost opens the cork, but pauses with his fingers on the top. “This will knock me out almost immediately, won’t it?” When Monty confirms it, he asks, “Is there anywhere else I can sleep that’s not a table?”

“Take my bed,” Monty says. “It’s through the archway over there.” 

Bellamy thanks him and Octavia helps him up and over to the room. Octavia tells Miller and Monty that she’ll watch over Bellamy before she disappears in Monty’s room. 

Monty looks out at the mess in front of him. He feels tired, suddenly, like he’s carrying the weight of this house on his back. He slumps forward and places his head in his hands, breathing in the lingering aroma of the plants he’d crushed and mixed together.

A hand settles on his lower back, and when he straightens, it travels up to his shoulders. Miller says, “Hey, you okay?” and the concern makes him feel equally warm and guilty.

Monty nods, turning into Miller’s touch. “Just tired. Of everything.”

Miller nods. “Go take a breather outside, get some air to calm you down.”

“Just—let me clean up a little here, there’s blood on the counter and plants everywhere—”

“I’ll get it,” Miller says. He’s speaking gently, like Monty’s either going to break or blow up. Monty realizes that fighting this will only make him more tired, so he just nods and heads out to the back.

He leans on the porch rails and takes a deep breath. Night has fully settled over the forest, and he knows that quiet is a lie, hiding the hunters inside. It seems strange to think that he was here maybe a little more than two hours ago, talking with Octavia. It’s not that it seems so long ago—he knows they didn’t spent hours in the forest—but it’s hard to understand that so much happened in that time. 

He does feel himself calm down a little, though, his body relaxing as he takes in the bright moon and cricket chirping. The night air is blissfully cool, and he rubs his hands together to keep them warm. He almost feels peaceful. 

Miller comes out soon afterwards, and he comes up behind Monty and presses against his back. Monty sighs and leans back into him, grateful for his steady presence. Miller presses his face into the curve of Monty’s neck, and Monty finds Miller’s hands with his own and links them together. 

Monty takes a couple more deep breaths, and finds that _now_ he feels truly at peace. Miller had been the missing piece. 

Miller doesn’t say anything, but his presence prompts Octavia’s conversation earlier in Monty’s mind. She’d mentioned the Wallaces, and Monty didn’t want to think that it was a coincidence. But it had already been a long, exhausting day, and he didn’t want to extend that exhaustion any further by weighing Miller down with unanswerable questions about his past. 

“Octavia says we’re mates,” Monty says instead. He’d assumed it was a pretty neutral topic, but by the way Miller stiffens a little, Monty may have hit another exhausting conversation instead. But Miller freezing makes him curious. “Did you know?”

Miller moves to Monty’s side, but his arm stays around Monty’s waist. He looks out at the forest, biting his bottom lip. “I know what you’re asking,” Miller says, looking to Monty. “Whether I fell for you because I’ve known since the beginning, or whether—” Miller stops. His eyes seem to be fixed on Monty’s face, like he’s searching for a telling expression. “I didn’t know,” he eventually says. “I knew you smelled different, but I didn’t know what it meant. I just thought it had something to do with your magic.” 

Monty nods. “I don’t care,” he tells Miller, and the corner of Miller’s mouth twitches. “You chose me either way.” 

“I didn’t even know after it happened,” Miller says. “I was just so pleased you smelled like me, I never even considered. I didn’t fully get it until Bellamy told me. He was curious about that too, but I couldn’t really answer his questions, since I knew fuck all myself.” 

“Well, I seem to be at a disadvantage,” Monty says. “I can’t tell the difference.” 

“No one knows how it would work for people who aren’t wolves,” Miller says. 

“I mean . . . Earlier, I felt calmed by your presence. I feel better when you’re around. But I’m not sure if that’s the supernatural mating bond, or just because we’re closer than we were before.” Monty looks at Miller. “What _does_ it feel like?” 

A small smile stretches across Miller’s face, and he turns his body toward Monty, his chest brushing Monty’s shoulder. Miller had pulled away from him earlier, but they never let much space between them—even now, Monty only has to turn his hand and lean in a little to capture Miller’s mouth.

“I’m hyper aware of you, as usual,” Miller says, “but this time, it’s not out of desire but . . . this fierce need to know where you are and that you’re safe. If you’re gone for too long I start to get worried. I am calmer just being around you.” Miller’s arm tightens around Monty’s waist. “I don’t know how to describe what it’s like when we get . . . intimate. I don’t want to say it’s otherworldly, but even kissing you makes me feel different. Realigned.” 

Monty doesn’t even realize he’s gripping Miller’s arm tightly until Miller touches his arm softly in return, gently pries Monty’s tight hold to take his hand. 

“There should be something about my scent in there,” Monty says, his voice trailing off into a whisper when Miller touches his forehead to Monty’s.

Miller laughs. “Oh yes, that too.” 

“I think I’m missing out,” Monty says, but the words gets lost under Miller kissing him. Miller’s keeping the pressure careful, like he can’t be gentle but doesn’t want to be too rough, and the effect is ruined by the way he pulls Monty flush against him. It’s anything but careful, it’s desperate and seems almost unconscious on Miller’s part.

Miller hums against Monty’s mouth. When he pulls away, he whispers, “Not entirely good. The possessiveness I feel is uncomfortable. And being completely aware of you at all times is very distracting, which—stop _laughing_ —I meant that, when I’m focused on things like trying to find Bellamy, but my number one thought it you, it’s distracting.”

“Maybe you should talk to Octavia about it,” Monty says. “Ask her how she dealt with it. She was telling me that she had a mate before, and they were together for—”

Miller starts laughing, and he bends to brush his mouth along Monty’s jaw. Monty’s words stutter to a stop and he tightens his arms around Miller’s neck. “ _Monty_ ,” he says, and his voice is dripping with warmth and affection. It makes delight rush through Monty. “This is the one time I actually want you to fully distract me, but if you’d rather talk about—”

Monty cuts him off with a kiss, one that’s off-kilter and messy, and he hopes the way he digs his nails into Miller’s neck conveys the _asshole_ he’d actually wanted to say. Miller isn’t careful this time—he groans at the feel of Monty’s nails digging into his neck and shoulders, and he goes to push Monty up against the rails, but Monty stops him and makes Miller the one forced back. Miller’s breath turns heavy, and a sharp, wicked smile curves his mouth. 

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” he says, his fingers tugging at Monty’s shirt until they’re flush against each other again. 

Monty just bites a grin into Miller’s mouth.

\--

In the morning, Monty’s up before anyone else is. 

He almost considers going out to the village in the morning and catching up with everyone, ask how they feel about almost killing the wolf, what they think will happen now, what they’re going to do. He thought he would be calmer when the morning came, but he finds himself with new worries that he hadn’t even anticipated.

He needs to distract himself, needs to get his hands moving. He checks his cabinet for any herbs that might be of use, and when he sees all the herbs he needs for his mental checklist, he starts pulling them out. 

Octavia is the first to rise after him, and by the time she enters the kitchen area, yawning, Monty has three energy potions already made. 

“Is Bellamy good?” Monty asks. He should know now, if he has to create another potion for healing. 

Octavia nods. “It already looks better. I checked his bandages, and it looks clean. I think he’ll only need another day or two.”

Monty feels relief sweep through him. “Thank the gods.” He points to one of the energy potions. “One of those is for you, if you want to feel a little more awake. It’s just for a boost.”

Octavia smiles at him and says, “Thanks,” as she drinks it. She shakes herself when it hits and raises her eyebrows. “Wow, it really does hit you. Sweet, too.”

“Sorry,” Monty says. “The sweetness is because I added a lot of raspberry. Trust me, if I didn’t, it wouldn’t taste very good at all.”

“It’s not bad,” she says, rinsing out the small bottle in the sink. “Just shocked me, is all.”

Monty nods as he crushes more raspberries to add into the last energy drink. The raspberries make the drink look a bright red, one that almost seems unnatural. Monty puts the last one with the others and says, “Do you think Bellamy has gotten enough sleep?”

“Why? Planning to knock him out some more?”

“Wake him up, actually.”

“I think he has,” Octavia says, and points to the energy drinks, “and those will wake him up if not. Why?”

“We all need to talk,” Monty says. “Can you wake him? I’ll get Miller.”

Octavia disappears inside the bedroom, so Monty goes over to Miller, who’s asleep on the couch. Monty shakes him awake, and he wakes quickly, jolting a little. When he sees Monty, he relaxes, giving him a tired but warm smile, his hands rubbing over his face. 

“Morning,” he says. 

“Morning,” Monty replies, taking Miller’s hand. “Everyone’s waking up now. We’re all going to talk right now.”

Miller’s voice is still scratchy with sleep. “Talk about what?”

“Everything, I guess,” Monty says. “Octavia and I had a conversation yesterday, and there are some things that overlap with what you’ve told me.”

Miller’s eyebrows furrow, and he leans up on his elbows. His mouth tugs down into a small frown. “Could it be—”

“A coincidence?” Monty says. “There’s a chance it may be. But I think once we talk it out, we can figure out for sure whether it’s one or not.”

“Alright,” Miller says, leaning up so he can press his face into Monty’s collarbone. Monty wraps his arms around Miller’s neck, runs one hand up the back of his head. Monty presses his mouth to Miller’s forehead and breathes him in for a moment, relishing in the way Miller hugs Monty’s body closer. 

Octavia comes in with Bellamy by her side. Monty extracts himself to see how Bellamy’s doing, but he seems to be walking fine, with only the slightest limp. 

“I don’t even think I need to check it,” Monty says. “Do I?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “The skin is new, so it pulls a little when I walk, but otherwise I think it’s fine. I’ve definitely had worse damage than this.” 

“I’m trusting you with this, Bellamy,” Monty says. “If it’s _not_ actually fine—”

Bellamy smiles. “It’s good. Thank you for everything, honestly.” He walks over to one of Monty’s couches and collapses in it. Octavia brings over the three energy potions and hands one to each of the guys. Monty downs his quickly, Bellamy does so after Monty explains what it is, and Miller just stares at it.

“I swear it’s safe, Miller,” Monty says, smiling at him. “Octavia and Bellamy haven’t died.”

Miller doesn’t seem to hear Monty. His hand comes up to the base of his throat, and his hand is shaking. After a moment he drops the glass vial, standing abruptly, and the glass shatters on the wood floor. 

“ _Miller_ ,” Monty says, walking over to him. Miller is hugging himself tightly, his index finger digging into the hollow at the base of his throat, and when Monty touches him, he shakes out of himself and stares at Miller. “Hey,” Monty whispers, making sure that he’s all that Miller sees. “What’s wrong?”

“The potion—that’s what they gave me,” Miller says, and then he presses his hand to his temple, biting his lip. “I know—it was the same color. Fuck.”

Monty glances down at the splattered energy drink. “Who—” he starts, then pauses when he realizes what Miller’s saying. “Is that what they gave you to turn you?”

“I don’t know,” Miller says, closing his eyes. “But my throat burns when I drink it. And then my whole body. When I saw your energy drink, it was like I was flashing back, and I couldn’t drink it—”

“It’s fine,” Monty says hurriedly. “Come on, sit down. I’ll get you some water, yeah? For your throat?” Miller nods his head, sitting down heavily, and Monty turns to Octavia. “Start telling him everything you told me last night, about you and Bellamy’s old lives and your mate. He needs to be caught up.”

A confused expression takes over Octavia’s face. “This is what we’re talking about?” she says. “I thought we’d be talking about the villagers and last night.”

“They may be related,” Monty says. “Just . . . tell him.”

Octavia and Bellamy exchange a confused look, but Octavia begins talking. Miller leans forward, his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped in thought, while he listens. Monty fills a glass with water and gives it Miller, sitting down next to him. Miller gives Monty a grateful look as he takes the glass, and he drains it quickly.

Bellamy doesn’t speak up much except to add in details to the story or correct Octavia where she gets things mixed up, and he keeps giving Monty confused glances as Octavia speaks. Miller focuses on Octavia, and his brow furrows as he’s listening, trying to pick out what’s so relevant that will make him understand. When she finishes, Miller says, “I don’t understand.”

“The leaders of the Mountain people at the time were the Wallaces,” Monty says, “and I’m assuming they were the leaders who dealt with your Commander?”

Bellamy nods. 

Now Miller gets it. He looks at Monty and holds his gaze. “The _Wallaces_?” 

“What about them?” Bellamy asks.

Miller doesn’t turn to either of them, so Monty responds. “Miller remembers them. He says he was terrified of them.” Both Octavia and Bellamy have mixed expressions of confusion, so Monty explains the memories that Miller had, and their expressions turn to disgust. “Octavia,” he says, “how long ago did this happen?” 

Bellamy says, “About two years ago,” and even though Monty suspected it, he still feels a coldness run through him.

“I would say two years and a two or so months,” Octavia says. “Lincoln was taken at the end of summer, and we’re well into fall.”

Miller has already caught up with Monty, because he says, “I don’t see how the two correlate. I’ve never met anyone named Lincoln.”

Monty doesn’t say _that you remember_ , because that wasn’t his point. “No,” he says. “But two years ago, werewolves start disappearing, Lincoln included, taken by the Mountain people. Around the same time, a werewolf—you—leaves the Mountain people. That _can’t_ be a coincidence.” 

Miller clasps his hands together as if in prayer. “We don’t know how long I was in there for,” Miller says. “We don’t know how long it took me to get _here_. There’s too much we don’t know.”

“Then let’s talk about everything we do know,” Monty says. “We may have enough information. You lived in one of the cities of _Moundanea_ , because your mother mentioned the rising taxes, and only the Mountain Men have such high taxes. And when your mother died, you moved to the farms. Yes?”

Miller nods. Bellamy says, “Where is that, exactly? Is it far from where the Wallaces?”

Monty stands to get his maps again, and he puts it on the ground in front of everyone. The mountains located at the top of the map, with the mountain people surrounding it. The left side and down is filled with those of _Grounduesa_ , and the right side and down is compiled of those of _Galaxaius_ , where the Ark’s village is. Between the Ark and the Mountain border is long, rolling valleys, and then it hits Space forest. The Ark is surrounded by Space forest on all sides, but to their left, if they go long enough, is the Grounder border. 

Miller kneels down next to Monty and points to the area in the right of the Mountain people’s territory. “That’s where the fields are,” he says. “My father and I used to sell our produce on the border between us and _Galaxaius_.” 

“Where do the Wallaces live?” Monty asks. 

“The capital,” Bellamy answers. Monty can locate it, right at the base of one of the mountains. It’s on the left side of their territory. 

“Okay,” Monty says. “Let’s assume that Miller didn’t volunteer to go to the Wallaces, and was taken.” Monty pauses and looks to Miller. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

“I never had a reason to,” Miller says, “but I just don’t remember.”

“Alright. Well, you managed to cross all this land”—Monty draws a line between the farmland and the capital—“and end up at with the Wallaces, where we can assume they did some type of experimentation on you. The result of which was you turning into a wolf.”

“With the potion, you think,” Bellamy says. His posture is forward, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the map like it might give them answers. “Which is why you couldn’t drink the energy potion, because it was the same color as the potion they gave you.”

“And it’s probably why you’re always touching your throat when you’re upset,” Monty says. “The potion had to have some type of magic in it, if it burned so much.”

Bellamy says, “I’d believe that it had magic. But the potion isn’t what turned Miller.”

“What do you mean?” Miller asks. “I definitely remember taking it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Bellamy says. “But there’s no way that the potion, magical or not, made you into a werewolf. The only ways you can become a werewolf is if you’re bitten or you inherited from your parents.” 

“He’s right,” Octavia says. “Maybe the reason you’re such a strange werewolf is because the magic affected you, but it didn’t turn you.”

Miller frowns down at the map. “I wasn’t born one,” Miller says. “So I was bitten.”

There’s a pause, where everyone waits for Miller to say something, but he just continues staring at the map. 

“Well,” Monty says, thinking on the time frame they have. “It’s not like the Mountain Men were lacking werewolves to bite him with.”

It takes a moment for them to understand. Octavia and Bellamy recoil. 

“ _No_ ,” Octavia says. “They wouldn’t. Not in a million years.” 

“They had the resources—”

“Not for this!” Bellamy exclaims. He’s almost shouting, but he manages to calm himself down and keep his voice level steady. “You don’t understand how much the Mountain Men hate our people. The history between the Mountain Men and Grounders goes back centuries, and there has never been peace between them, save for the attempt by our Commander. They would kill any Grounder they saw, whether they were werewolves or not, because they worried they were just those who had the recessive gene and would pass it on. They would never attempt to _create_ werewolves.” 

Miller looks to Bellamy. “Not even to counter the Grounders? Fight fire with fire?”

“The Mountain Men have advanced technology and weaponry,” Octavia says. “They have warfare that we haven’t even seen, mostly because we haven’t had an escalated war in years. They don’t need werewolves.”

“And the Mountain Men pride themselves on being organized, modernized, highly-advanced,” Bellamy says, his tone rich with bitterness. “They’ve always called the Grounders dirty, outdated, monsters. Creating werewolves, in their eyes, would be _lowering themselves_.” 

“But they were doing something,” Monty presses. 

“You said that they were leaders in science and medicine,” Miller says, turning to Monty. “What if they’re so good because they’ve done so many experiments. Experiments like me.”

That comment seems to hit them all as truth, and it’s hard to take in. 

“I’m going to be sick,” Octavia says, going to the kitchen to get some water. Her hand shakes while she takes a sip. 

Understanding dawns on Bellamy’s face. He says, “They weren’t trying to create werewolves. They were trying to create a way to stop people from turning when bitten.” Octavia’s hand, holding the glass of water, freezes between her mouth and the table. Bellamy lets out a bitter, breathy laugh. “They wanna stop more from ever being created. Or even better, they want to make sure that their people can’t turn, and if we go to war . . .”

“They’d have one more defense against us,” Octavia says. “I mean, if they were bitten, we’d still tear the shit out of them, but no one else could turn. And since we’re such an isolated community, our numbers would eventually, over generations and generations, dwindle.”

“So they give Miller a potion that they think will work,” Monty says. “They have a werewolf they’ve caught bite him.” Turning to Bellamy, he says, “Would there be a mark left?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “The healing ability would take care of that.”

“So then Miller turns, obviously he’s a failure in their eyes, and he . . .” Monty pauses, coming to a flaw in that thought.

Octavia finishes it for him. “If he turned, the Mountain Men would’ve never let him go. They would’ve killed him.” She inhales sharply. “Oh, gods. They wouldn’t have kept any of the wolves they caught alive. Lincoln—”

“Octavia, we don’t know anything,” Bellamy says, equally sharp and soothing at once. “Lincoln may have escaped before he got to the Mountain Men.”

“For six months?” Octavia exclaims. 

“It’s possible,” Monty says. “Miller somehow escaped, since he’s here, so Lincoln could have too.”

“And I didn’t return back to my home,” Miller says. “I came here.” Then he frowns, looking down at the map. “Why didn’t I go home?”

“Too scared of yourself, maybe?” 

Miller draws a line down the map, from the capital city to Space Forest. “I had to have come straight here. I would’ve been intercepted by Grounders if I went into _Grounduesa_ , and as a wolf, I’d recognize the scent of my father, of my home. But . . . I came here. To the Ark. And I never left.” He looks up from the map. “If your mate went missing a little over two years ago, and I came here two years ago . . . you said two months. Let’s say that’s how long I was there. Two months, for me to get experimented on, turn, and come here. That’s not a lot of time.”

“You came all the way through Mountain Men territory and was never caught?” Octavia asks doubtfully. “You were either a human, drugged on whatever magic potion they gave you, delirious and high, and somehow managed to get here, or, you were a werewolf, unused to that form, and also managed to get here? That’s not likely.”

“They could’ve sent me,” Miller says. “It could explain why I came here unharmed. And it could explain why I’ve never left, why I only solidified my borders.”

Bellamy’s already shaking his head. “No. You’re a werewolf, which they would already kill you for, but letting you roam free to—what? Create _more_ werewolves? They wouldn’t do that.”

“You said you already had a pack,” Monty says, remembering the story Miller told him. “Maybe that’s the other wolves they turned in the experiments, or the wolf who bit you—”

“Or maybe it’s the Mountain Men,” Octavia says with fake cheer. “Since they’re the ones who truly made you, isn’t it?”

“Octavia,” Bellamy says, a warning in his voice. 

“Look, we don’t know how Miller got here,” Monty says, interrupting before there can be any more sniping. “And we probably never will, unless Miller remembers. But can we at least all agree that the Mountain Men are doing something to werewolves that involves them experimenting on people? Werewolves and humans alike?”

Everyone in the room considers it. Miller gives a slight dip of his head in assent. Octavia lets out a long sigh and says, “Yes,” and Bellamy says, “If they really are trying to make an antidote of sorts . . . Yes.”

Octavia jumps in fiercely. “Even without knowing what they’re truly doing, they’re taking our people. We deserve revenge.” 

“Is that what we’re going to do?” Miller says, and the single comment stops them all. He gives them all a look that’s almost pitying. “I mean, seriously. Say all of it’s true, everything we’ve said today. What would we actually _do_ about it? All the Grounders, backing a single leader, couldn’t face off against the Mountain Men. What would three werewolves and a descendant of witches do?”

A hush falls over them. Octavia looks off into space, her mind on something else. Miller’s eyes are back on the map. Bellamy stares at his hands. Monty closes his eyes and scrubs his hands over his eyes, through his hair. 

“All the Grounders backed Commander Anya with the peace treaty with the Mountain Men,” Octavia says in the silence. “When our people started to disappear, it caused a fractionation between us. We weren’t united behind Anya then, we were a mess. If we could actually unite behind her, all the Grounders—that could work.”

“How?” Miller asks. 

Octavia looks to Bellamy. “We could contact Indra.”

“You really think she would want to talk to us?” Bellamy says. “We _left_.” 

“She loved Lincoln like a son,” Octavia says, “and these are her people as well. She’d want to know.” 

“If we can prove it,” Miller says.

“We can contact Indra,” Octavia continues with more force, “and if she’ll listen to us, we can press forward, meet with her to tell her everything we discussed here. Maybe the Grounders know more, or we can get more information. Why not? What else could we do?”

“We could tell the Ark,” Monty says. 

They all turn and stare at him, words of protest already leaving their mouths. Bellamy and Octavia start raising their voice at him, protesting loudly and angrily, and Miller just stares at him. He looks deeply upset at Monty, which Monty hates, but his gaze is searching, like he’s trying to understand. 

“I know you hate the idea,” Monty says, trying to cut through their voices, “but this has affected the Ark too. They’ve been terrorized for two years, and they lost Wells, whether he turned and disappeared or was killed.” Miller doesn’t flinch, but he looks away. “And the Mountain’s own people have been hurt by this. Their children have gone missing, or are being taken, or somehow tricked into these experiments. Everyone is getting harmed by the Mountain Men.” Monty leans back, crossing his arms. “What could the Mountain Men do against the Grounders, parts of _Galaxaius_ , and their own people?”

Bellamy’s face is grim, but he admits, “Not much.”

“This is one giant jump we’ve taken,” Octavia says. “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to contact Indra. And there’s no way that we could convince the Ark to listen to that story—they don’t have sympathy for werewolves, especially not one they assume killed their son.”

Miller makes a low growling sound. 

“We’re going to give them what they want,” Monty says. “We’re going to give them peace of mind. They’ll finally know what happened to Wells, or they’ll have hope that he’s alive. That will satisfy them.”

Miller’s laugh was so sharp it almost sounded like a bark. “They don’t want peace of mind,” he says, his voice practically a snarl. “They want _revenge_. That’s why they’ve been trying to kill me for the last two years.” 

Octavia puts her head in her hands. “This is never going to work.”

Miller pushes himself up from the floor to pace around the kitchen. Monty closes his eyes and tries to see some way they can deal with this, because they can’t just live with the knowledge and do nothing. At least, Monty knows he can’t, and this affects them more. 

“What if we do this,” Bellamy says. “Octavia could contact Indra. If Indra responds positively, we can move on with the Ark. If the Ark responds positively, then we can all move forward together. If the Ark responds negatively, we leave immediately to Trikru and try to go somewhere with Indra.” He looks everyone in the eyes as he speaks, looking for any sign of dissent. “If Indra responds negatively, we drop it. Totally and completely. There’s no point taking such a big risk with the Ark if we don’t have anywhere else to go.” Bellamy pauses, then says, “Is that good? Everyone else in?”

In the silence that follows, while everyone contemplates what to do, Monty pulls his magic inward and focuses on it completely. He can feel magic in the three of them, possibly from the werewolf and possibly from the energy potion; he can feel the magic near his fireplace, in the plants in his herb cabinet; he can feel it in the wind outside, in the grass and trees. When he comes back to himself, he says, “I’m in.”

He’s the first one to speak, and everyone else jolts a little at his voice. Miller is the first one to respond, because once he processes what Monty says, he quickly cuts in, “No. No way, if it does come to leaving—you can’t—”

“I’m _in_ ,” Monty repeats, giving Miller a look that conveys _not right now_. 

“Me too,” Octavia says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll never forgive them for what they did to Lincoln.” 

Bellamy nods and looks to Miller. “I’m in. You’re the last one we need.”

“I’m not outvoted? Majority or whatever?”

“It’s your story we’d be telling,” Bellamy says. “We need you on this. It’s all of us or nothing.” 

Miller looks down at his hands. He stares at them for a long moment, long enough for Octavia to start fidgeting, for Bellamy to start throwing Monty glances. Finally, Miller says, “Alright. I’m in.” 

Bellamy lets out a long breath. “Alright. Octavia and I will head home and start that letter to Indra. We’ll get it to her . . . somehow.”

“Trikru trades with merchants on the border,” Octavia says. “We can ask them to deliver a letter along. I’m sure they’ll do it.”

“We’ll certainly try,” Bellamy says. He stands up from the couch, wincing when his wound pulls. “Monty, will I need anything else for this?”

Monty’s glad for something else to think on; Miller is quiet and it worries Monty. “I’ll give you more of the salve, just in case it opens up again,” Monty says. “If it doesn’t open up, put it on tonight before you go to bed, just to be sure.”

While Monty collects the rest of the salve, Octavia and Bellamy collect any of the stuff they left behind. Monty hands Bellamy the salve and Bellamy thanks him. Octavia gives Monty a quick hug as Bellamy says, “We’ll have to be patient, who knows how long this will take.” 

When they leave, the house feels strangely quiet. An air of sickness permeates the house, so Monty opens up some of the windows and the back door to hid the house of the smell. He goes into his bedroom next to change out the blankets on the bed, since it technically counted as Bellamy’s sickbed. 

By the time he’s remade the bed with fresher blankets, Miller’s outside on the porch. 

Monty dumps the blankets in a large, empty bucket that serves as his washing and follows him outside.

“I seem to be having a lot of meaningful conversations out here,” Monty says. Miller levels a glare at him. “Alright, what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t like this plan,” he says. 

Monty bites his lip. “If you didn’t like it, why did you agree to it?”

“Because this wasn’t just about _me_ , it was about Lincoln and Wells and every other Grounder who was taken,” Miller says. Suddenly his anger drops, and he sighs. “Monty, if the Ark doesn’t agree to help us, we’ll have you leave. _You’ll_ have to leave.” 

“I know.”

“I can’t make you leave your home, the people you knew and grew up with, all because of me. I don’t care if I’m your mate—it’s a horrible thing to do. I don’t want it to happen.”

“Then we hope for the best.”

“ _Monty_. You’ll have to leave everyone and everything you’ve ever known, a life of safety and peace to—what? Fight in a revolution against the Mountain Men? For what? And _don’t_ say for me.”

Monty turns away from Miller and says, “I don’t understand how you can say that you don’t want me to come with you because you’d be forcing me to abandon me everything I know, as my _mate_ , but I can’t claim the same argument to want to stay with you?”

“Monty—”

“Why would I _want_ to stay here if they don’t believe you? Or if they harmed you, or Bellamy, or Octavia?” Monty pauses. “They’ve already hurt Bellamy, but—if they knew, if we told them everything and they still chose hate—why would I want to stay here? Why wouldn’t I want to leave with you?”

Miller scrubs his hand over his head, and when he sighs, he seems to deflate. He turns towards Monty and opens his arms a little, so Monty walks into them, hugging him tightly back. 

“I think it’s safe to say you’re being an idiot,” Monty says. 

“Probably,” Miller says. Monty pulls back slightly, and Miller still looks upset, just added with defeat. Monty tugs at his shirt to try and pull him close, but Miller scowls at him and says, “That’s not going to work.”

“Come on,” Monty says, tugging harder, and Miller finally acquiesces and lets Monty kiss him. After a moment, he finally kisses back, and Monty laughs into his mouth. “You don’t have to act like kissing me is so torturous,” Monty whispers. 

“You’re cheating,” he whispers back into another kiss.

“You’re feeling better, though, right?”

“No.”

“Liar.” 

That gets Miller to smile, and in the next kiss, he doesn’t hesitate at all.

\--

Octavia sends the message to Indra the next day; while they wait for a response, they prepare. 

Monty gathers everything in the house that he knows he’ll need, at first making a mental checklist and then going through everything. They can only carry so much. Octavia and Bellamy help him with the amount, since he’s never had to move around with so little before, and they tell him what’s necessary to bring and what to leave behind.

Miller helps a little, since he doesn’t actually have much besides everything that Monty (and indirectly Bellamy) have given him. 

Monty stocks up on food until Bellamy and Octavia tell him that with three werewolves between them, food won’t be much of a problem. So Monty starts collecting his money instead—that he knows they’ll need on the journey.

As their plans become more solidified, Miller looks less and less upset by going along with it. He and Monty go over everything, still attempting to resurrect something from his memory that could help him. 

One night, while they’re lying in bed, Monty traces his palm and says, “Maybe we could find your father.”

Miller startles at the words. “You’d want to?”

“I thought you would.” He looks over at Miller, but it’s hard to see much. The low light they have plays across his jaw, so Monty can see when he speaks. “It’s your father.”

“I don’t know. I’d want to, but I don’t think he would’ve stayed if I left.”

“We can still find him. If he did leave, I’m sure it was mentioned to one of the neighbors.”

“Maybe. It’s all still doubtful.”

Monty remains quiet, still tracing Miller’s lifeline with his thumb. “Nate,” he says. “If this is about not wanting to face your dad again, after being a werewolf—”

Miller shifts so that he’s facing away from Monty a little bit. Monty sighs. He hadn’t meant to offend him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“It’s just complicated,” Miller says. 

“Alright.” Monty lets Miller have his hand back, but he follows Miller onto his side, sliding his arm around Miller’s waist and pressing against his back. 

\--

One day, when Miller is out in the forest and Jasper drops by to visit, he comments, “Your house looks a lot cleaner than usual.”

Monty only smiles innocently and says, “I hadn’t noticed.”

\--

He will miss the people of the Ark, he realizes. He’ll miss Jasper and Maya and Raven and Harper. He’ll even miss some of the others, in a bittersweet way. He may have never gotten along with them, but this was the place he grew up. There’s some nostalgia left around. 

There’s a sick sort of anticipation while they wait for the letter. Monty doesn’t know what to expect: if the letter supports them, they’ll all get their stuff ready in case they have to leave at a moment’s notice and make plans to tell the Ark. 

If the letter doesn’t support them, they’ll unpack all their stuff and abandon their plans. But Monty’s beginning to realize that things won’t be able to go back to the way they were. With the attack on Wells’s anniversary, Octavia and Bellamy are wary about staying at the Ark for too long. With the news of what may have happened to Lincoln, Octavia wants to start the search for him all over again. 

Even Monty feels this way about the Ark. Miller can’t stay here, not after Bellamy got shot. When he went to the village after Octavia and Bellamy left, the village was in a frenzy, uncontrollably enthusiastic about shooting the wolf. Monty listened with fake excitement, trying not to think about Bellamy bleeding out on his table.

Harper tells him, excitement dripping from her voice, that they are going to search even more the next week. The wolf is hurt, she says, and will be easier to catch now. They saw it and they hurt it; it is not unbeatable. She fully believes they can do it, too, and it makes Monty scared.

Monty’s getting more and more nervous as the days pass by, but Miller always reassures him, and Bellamy keeps reminding him that they have to be patient. 

Monty finds that the more time he spends away from the villagers, the calmer he is. And he’s even calmer when he spends that time with Miller. 

Three weeks later, when Monty is showing Miller how he washes his things in the tub, Octavia rushes into the house. “Indra responded!” she exclaims, breathing heavily. “The response came in right now.”

Miller stands so quickly he dislodges the tub a little, sloshing water over Monty’s legs. Monty doesn’t care, just stands as well, waiting for her answer and trying to decide if the feeling in his stomach is excitement or nerves. 

“Well?” Miller says impatiently.

“She’s interested and willing to meet with us,” Octavia says. 

“She said yes,” Miller says, and he leans back against the wall. Monty’s not sure whether it’s from relief or disappointment.

Octavia nods. “Which means we speak to the Ark.” She pauses, then adds carefully, “We’re still good for that, right? If you have hesitations, Bell and I won’t push—”

“We’re good,” Miller says, so Monty nods his head in agreement. 

“Alright,” she says, “then we’ll meet up later tonight and discuss what we’re going to do, okay? Dinner’s on us.”

“We’ll be there,” Monty says, and Octavia runs back out the door.

Miller and Monty stare at each other. Suddenly it seems like time is moving forward too fast, like everything could come crashing down around them. Everything, now, depends on how the Ark receives their story.

Monty’s mouth is dry. “Forget the washing,” Monty says, voice hoarse, and Miller is already stepping towards him when he says, “Come here,” and pulls Miller into a kiss.

\--

Monty watches Kane light the first torch. It gets passed around and around, until the small _whoosh_ of the fire lighting and the bright flare become common across the small clearing in the middle of the village. With so much enthusiasm over the wolf lately, they village has rotating night shifts now, so that it may be easier to catch the wolf.

Monty steps up to the front of the town hall building, where Clarke is watching the group light their fires. He walks up the steps to stand next to her, giving her a small smile and a warm greeting.

“It’s cold tonight, isn’t it,” she says. “Soon the fall days will be over.”

“And the cold will set upon us,” Monty says. It’s one thing he and the others have talked about: if they do have to leave, travelling in the winter is less than just dangerous: it’s almost plain stupid. But they can’t wait, and if they can’t stay here, they’ll have to.

The villager’s excited voices soon begin to disappear; the silence they leave behind is almost chilling. There are more villagers that stayed in tonight, but they all must be asleep or in their houses by now; the hunts are so commonplace that it’s no use to see everyone off at every hunt. 

“Do you think they’ll catch it this time?” Clarke asks, standing so that their shoulders brush. 

The hunting party’s torches disappear, and after a minute or two, their voices die down completely. “No,” Monty says. As usual, Clarke doesn’t take any notice to it, since it’s what he always says. This time, however, he knows for certain.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says, nudging him with her shoulder. “I have a really good feeling about this tonight.” 

Monty just looks at her and continues to give her a small smile, turning to look at the empty village. He sees one of the older women, Isa, walking across the clearing, a small goat behind her. 

He doesn’t tell her that there won’t be a wolf at all tonight, since Octavia and Bellamy are already in their home. He doesn’t tell her that Miller was already asleep in Monty’s bed when Monty left him, that he’d fallen asleep long before the full moon was up. He doesn’t tell her about their plans for tomorrow, that they’ll sit in front of the council in this same town hall and tell them everything—about Wells, about Miller, about what may lie ahead of them in the future.

He doesn’t. He _can’t_ tell her. 

So he says, “I don’t see why we even have the hunting parties anymore. It’s been two years.”

Clarke jerks a little and gives him an incredulous look. “What do you mean why do we have the hunts anymore? There’s a wolf in the woods.” 

Monty smiles at her again, says, “Of course,” and tries not to think of the way Miller sighed in his sleep when Monty got out of bed. “Goodnight, Clarke.” 

She says goodnight, a puzzled expression on her face, and Monty disappears down the stairs, following Isa across the clearing. He cuts to the left, however, taking the usual path back to his house. The woods don’t seem quiet—the crickets are loud tonight, the moon’s shine is so bright it seems to be attempting to convey some sort of message, and Monty can feel the magic humming around him.

He enters his house, discarding his jacket in the living room, his boots and socks in the entrance to his bedroom, and then his shirt in the bedroom. When he crawls into bed, Miller stirs, folding Monty into his arms. 

“Shh, go back to bed,” Monty says, wrapping his arms around Miller and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ve been dreaming,” Miller whispers into his collarbone, “about forests and rune paint.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr!](http://williamanderly.tumblr.com/) :)


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